The sun came shining in through the garret windows, dancing over the floor in cones of light, caressing the geraniums until they gleamed a rich scarlet against the green of the ivy; and the cobwebs glistened like silk under the eaves. About the mill the doves flew in circles, alighting on the sill, clinging to the ivy with their pink claws, cooing gently, and pecking at the worm-eaten casement.
"Dear doves," said Kaya, "You are hungry, and when you come to me for bread you find nothing but the stone. Chrr-rp!" She whistled softly and held her hands over the sill, dropping crumbs: "Chrr-rp! Come, pretty doves, and eat!"
The birds came nearer, eying her out of their bright eyes with little runs forward, then circling and cooing again.
"Chrr-rp!" she called,—"Chrr-rp! Come!" And she held out her hands as if coaxing: "Come, my doves! Chrr-rp!"
One with fawn-coloured wings came flying and lighted on her shoulder; another followed.
"Come—chrr-rp!"
The soft little bodies huddled against one another on the sill, pressing closer; some on her arm and some eating out of her hand. She stroked their bright plumage, holding a crumb between her teeth.
"Chrr-rp—chrr-rp!"
The dove on her shoulder stretched his wings, pressing against her cheek with his breast, tipping forward on his pink feet, until his beak reached the crumb and he took it from her lips.
"Chrr-rp—chrr-rp!"
Kaya laughed softly, rubbing her cheek against the down of the bird; whistling and coaxing with her hands. The doves flew about her, lighting, struggling for footing on her shoulder and curls; and she shook her head, laughing:
"Chrr-rp—away with you! Would you pluck my hair and line your nests with my curls! Pischt—away with you!" she flung out the crumbs again. "There—eat, my pretty ones—eat!"
Below, the great wheel turned and splashed in the water with a whirr, buzzing. Kaya gazed down at it, and as she gazed she forgot the doves, and a strange little shudder went over her, so that the one on her shoulder lifted his wings in affright.
The water was deep in the pool, and there were little ripples under the spokes where the sun-beams were dancing. She dropped on her knees before the window and began to sing, still gazing at the wheel, the doves all about her, pianissimo—on the lower note of the scale, singing up, and then in arpeggios; each note distinct and separate like the link in a chain, pure, soft, hardly above a breath.
As she sang, her voice rose gradually, deepening and increasing in power. The doves pecked the crumbs on the sill, huddling against her and eating from her hands. She began to trill from one note to another, and in trilling, her thoughts ran hither and thither even as her voice, and her eyes wandered from the wheel, resting dreamily on the promenade, and the people walking under the trees.
The rhythm of a mazurka was in her ears and she sang louder, trying to drown it. She was in a great hall vaulted, dome-like with marble columns; violins were playing and the sound rose and fell, invisible as from the clouds. There was the perfume of flowers, heavy and languorous, and snatches of laughter, and the gleaming of jewels. The floor was shining and polished like a mirror, reflecting the forms of the dancers as they whirled to and fro. The light was dazzling and the colour.
She was dancing. Her feet flew in time to the rhythm.… Now it was dark and she was lying back on a divan, faint, helpless. The voice of the Prince was in her ears and he was bending over her; his eyes were crossed.… Ah, the clock was striking! It was midnight and someone had opened the door! Someone was crossing the room and bending over papers on the desk!… There was the sound of a shot! She was holding the pistol in her hand … It was smoking and through the vapoury wreathes she saw on the floor a body lying … a man on his face with his arms outstretched!
She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her, and lighting with fluttering wings.
"I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back! God knows—I have tried to atone!"
Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with them.
Suddenly the door opened.
"Is it you, Marta?"
"No, it is I."
The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm. They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure.
"Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master! You will frighten the doves! See, how they press against me with their breasts and their wings—and how they flutter! They were hungry this morning, but they have eaten now and are happy. Once they came to me and I had nothing for them. If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed them, not I."
"You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya. I heard you from the promenade and I saw you. Your curls were like a halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing. One was on your shoulder. Ah, it has gone now—I have startled it! It was close to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips."
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes. It is sweet to be able to feed them. You have fed us both, dear Master."
She turned her head slightly, smiling up at him.
"Turn your head further, Kaya; let me see your face."
"The dove has come back. How can I? There—move a little, my dove—chrr-rp! Go away! No, he clings! See—I cannot! The down on his breast is so soft and his feathers so warm. He presses so close."
"Tell me, little one, how is your voice today? The same—full and strong as it was that night? Are you Kaya to-day, or Brünnhild'?"
The girl smiled again.
"Look at me, child. I have come to talk to you. There is a rehearsal this morning for 'Siegfried.'"
"Ah—yes!"
"The performance is advertized for tomorrow."
"—Yes?"
"Are you listening, Kaya? Your voice has a dreamy sound. What are you thinking about?"
She started. "Nothing!"
"What are you thinking about? Tell me."
"Russia!"
The Kapellmeister gave a sharp exclamation: "That is why you would not turn your head! It was not the dove, I knew. Are you still—"
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes, it never leaves me. The curse, the curse of the—Cross!"
She pressed her cheek against the dove, hiding her eyes.
"It must leave you!" said the Kapellmeister roughly, "There is work for you to do! Rouse yourself, Kaya! Drive away the doves now or I will do it myself. If you brood, you will ruin your voice—do you hear me?"
"Pischt!" said Kaya, "Now they are gone—! I will not think any more of Russia to-day."
The Kapellmeister went to the window and laid his hand where the dove had been, pressing the slender shoulder and forcing her to turn.
"I want you," he said, "Now—this morning! I have come for you!"
Kaya rose to her feet slowly: "To sit aloft in the flies and sing while Siegfried seeks me?" She smiled up at him; "You have come for your bird?"
"No."
Her eyes searched his. "No," she faltered, "did I sing badly? I—I thought—"
"Kaya, the Schultz is ill."
The colour rushed to the girl's face and then fled away again, leaving her pale. "Ill!" she stammered, "You look at me so strangely, dear Master!"
"The Directors have authorized me to wire to Dresden for another soprano."
"Yes—?"
"I refused."
Kaya raised her blue eyes.
"I told them I had a Brünnhilde here on the spot. Can you do it? I have taken the risk. Can you do it? If you sing as you did that night—!"
"I will," cried Kaya, "I will!" She pressed against him like the doves, clasping her hands together. "It is only the one scene, Master; I know it so well, every note! Many times I rehearsed it with Helmanoff, many times. Bring me the helmet and the spear—bring me Siegfried!" Her eyes were shining.
"Then come with me now," cried the Kapellmeister, "As you are! Is that your hat on the nail? Put it on. The placards are out—and the orchestra sits in the pit, waiting. I have promised them a Walküre with a voice like a bell! Come, Kaya—come! You are not nervous, little one, or afraid?"
Kaya ran lightly to the peg and took down her hat. She was laughing, and her face was alight as if the sun-beams had touched it; her lips were parted and the dimples came and went in her cheeks:
"Now—my cloak!" she cried, "Quick! Help me—the right sleeve, dear master, can you find it? Yes—yes! And my gloves—here they are!"
"Kaya, your face is like a rose and your feet are dancing."
She blushed. "You don't know," she said, "I have dreamed all my life of being Brünnhilde. When I feel the helmet and the shield on my breast, and the touch of the spear—it is like wine!" She stopped suddenly and passed her hand over her face.
"What is it, Kaya?"
"I forgot," she said, "I forgot—! Take my cloak; take my hat! I cannot sing. I forgot!"
Ritter stared at her: "What do you mean, child; what are you talking about? Is it fright? Tschut! It will pass." He took the cloak again and laid it about her shoulders: "Come now, the orchestra will be growing impatient. It is ten o'clock past."
"I cannot," said Kaya, and her lip trembled: "Telegraph to Dresden, dear Master—quickly!"
"Potztausend—and why?"
She backed slowly away from him and the cloak fell to the ground.
"Kaya, you shake as if you had a chill!"
"Can Brünnhilde sit aloft in the flies?" she said, "She is there in front of the footlights and everyone sees her. Oh—I forgot!"
"Donnerwetter! Of course she is seen! Is it the sight of the audience that will frighten you?"
"No," she said, "not the audience."
Ritter made an impatient movement forward: "What then? Sacrement! You were full of joy not a moment ago; there was no fear in your eyes, and now—it is as if someone had struck you!" He followed her to the corner where she had retreated step by step; and when she could go no further, he laid his hands on her shoulders.
"Look at me," he said, "straight in the eyes, Kaya, straight in the eyes. You must."
"I—cannot!"
"I tell you you must."
He bent over her, and she felt his hands bearing heavily on her shoulders; his eyes were flashing, insistent, determined: "You must."
"I cannot."
"Come."
She shook her head.
"Kaya—! You have been like my child! I—I love you as my own daughter! Your career, your success is dear to me. I have ventured more than you know on this chance—that you might have it. The town is crowded with strangers. The House will be full. They will hear you and your fame may be made in a night! What is the matter with you, little one?"
"I cannot," said Kaya.
His grasp grew heavier. "If you throw away this chance—listen to me—it may be years before you have another. You are young, and managers are hard to approach; you found that yourself. It is the merest accident of fate that the Schultz should be ill just now, while no other soprano is on hand, and you know the part. You sang it for me, Kaya, that night, and your voice was Brünnhilde's own. Would you be a coward now? Come, and let me cover you with the shield and the helmet; when you feel the spear in your hand the fright will leave you. It is not like you to be afraid, Kaya. Your eyes are like a doe's! Don't be frightened, little one."
She looked at him and tried to speak, but no words came.
"If I yielded to you, Kaya, if I let you be conquered by the stage-terror once, it would be a rock in your path forever. Come with me! My will is strong, stronger than yours, and I swear you shall come! If I have to carry you in my arms to the stage, you shall come; and you will thank me for it afterwards when the terror has passed."
"No—no!" The girl pressed closer against the wall, "Don't, dear Master, take your hands from my shoulders. I cannot!"
"Come."
"No."
He stared down into the blue eyes: "I tell you you shall come. You are throwing away the chance of a lifetime; do you understand? If you have no care for your own future, I shall care for it for you. Kaya!"
"No."
"Come, I tell you!"
His eyes were hard and cold, and her form was slight; it reeled in his grasp. She gazed at him and her chin was set like his own.
"If you care for me, Kaya, if you are grateful—" he hesitated, "Ah, come with me, Kaya! It is not fear I see in your eyes; it is something else. What is it? Tell me!" He put his arm about her shoulders suddenly, and the harsh look left his face: "Confide in me, little one, I won't try to force you. You are slight and frail, but your will is like iron; it is useless. If I carried you it would be useless."
Kaya took a quick breath. "Dear Master," she said, "It is not the audience I fear, not the audience, but it is someone in the audience. If that someone should see me and—and recognize me!"
"You forget, Kaya; did I recognize you?"
"No, but the foot-lights were not in my face. When the House is crowded and the curtain is up, and the glare is full in my eyes, then—"
"You are disguised by the hair red-blonde, and the helmet covering. No one could tell! At a distance you are not Kaya, you are Brünnhilde. Brünnhilde is always the same. When your eyes are hidden, Kaya, and your curls—the House is large—no one could tell!" He was drawing her slowly toward the door.
"You did not," said Kaya, "but—if he were there he would know."
"Who?"
She looked at him mutely, and he took his hand from her shoulder.
"Whoever it is," exclaimed Ritter harshly, "from the House, I swear to you, your own mother would not know you, unless she had seen you before in the part. That is nonsense! From the orchestra perhaps, from the conductor's stand—but not from the House. Kaya, you hurt me, child; you hurt me sorely if you refuse!"
He stood before her with his arms folded. "My heart is set on your success," he said, "and if—"
Kaya, looking up suddenly, saw that there were tears in his eyes. "Master," she cried. And then her will broke suddenly like iron in a furnace, red-hot under the stroke of the hammer. "You are sure?" she cried, "From the House no one would know me? You are sure?"
"I am sure."
She hesitated, looking away from him.
"No one?" she repeated, "not even—"
Then she raised her eyes and came closer to the Kapellmeister, looking up in his face. "He loves me," she stammered, "And I—I love him! But the curse is between us—if he should find me again—! Ah, it is myself I am afraid of—myself!" Her breath came in sobs and her face quivered.
The Kapellmeister lifted the cloak from the floor and put it around her shoulders. There was a strange light in his eyes. He gazed at her for a moment; then he caught her by the hand and drew her toward the door.
"Come!" he said, "Trust me, Kaya. I understand—at last I understand. Come!"
She yielded without a word.
They were both trembling.
The second Act was over. The curtain had descended slowly, hiding the singers; the lights had flashed up, revealing the House. It was crowded from the pit to the gallery. The double row of loggias was ablaze with colour; and from them came a light ripple of talk and of laughter, broken loose as the curtain fell, a sound like the running of water over smooth pebbles.
The Schultz was ill. So it was advertized all over the foyer on huge yellow placards; and a new Brünnhilde was to take her place. The name was unknown; a young singer doubtless, brought forward under the stress of the dilemma. The audience whispered together and the ripple grew louder. In the next Act, the final scene, she would appear. The moments were passing.
Suddenly the door at the back of one of the loggias opened, and an usher ran hurriedly in. He gave a hasty glance over the occupants, and then bent and whispered to a gentleman in the rear.
"Monsieur Velasco?"
The gentleman nodded.
"Sir—the Kapellmeister has been seized with a sudden attack of giddiness and is unable to continue with the performance. He begs earnestly that you will conduct the last Act in his place."
"I—?" said Velasco.
"There is no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it. The Kapellmeister is in great distress. The minutes are passing."
"Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come." He rose and followed the usher from the loggia.
When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were visible. The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it.
The Act was progressing.
Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Brünnhilde, hiding it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil. Flames flashed up here and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees. As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins were to the ear as the flames to the eye. The stage was a billow of smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling, leaping.
The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths. The music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience beat fast to the rhythm.
Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of Brünnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand. He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walküre, straight and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the flare of the flames. "Brünnhilde—Brünnhilde!"
Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her—he had taken the shield from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.
The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle, hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and Siegfried stooping.… Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily, raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the goddess was aroused at last.
Brünnhilde opened her eyes—and half kneeling, half reclining, she stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then, as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.
It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious, irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses, the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of passion and pure.
"Heil dir, Sonne!Heil dir, Licht!Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"
The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the sound of an echo through mountain passes. The audience listened and gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded; their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.
On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brünnhilde, the tip of her spear, falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.
Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her steps faltered.
The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran over the House.
What had happened? Brünnhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walküre stood motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill—struck with sudden paralysis? Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her faculties?"
She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her voice came back.
"Velasco!" she cried.
"Kaya—Kaya!"
But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and their hands. The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold water on the face of a sleep-walker.
"I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!" Her eyes were still riveted.
The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his brows, his fingers quivered over the baton. He moved it mechanically, gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed. The other hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his path suddenly and he was blinded.
Her lips moved again, and his. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights. Brünnhilde fell back.
"For God's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it? Are you mad? Sing—sing! Let out your voice—take up your cue! Go on!"
Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with passion unveiled and bared. She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her helmet.
Siegfried besought her and she answered, they sang together; but as she answered, singing, her eyes were still fixed, and she sang as one out of herself and inspired.
"Siegfried!""Brünnhilde!""Siegfried! Siegfried! seliger Held!Pu Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht!"
The tempo quickened and the rhythm; and the tones grew higher and richer, ringing, more passionate. Such acting—such singing! It was as if the Walküre herself had come out of the trance back to life, and the audience saw Brünnhilde in the flesh. The House reverberated to the sound of her voice; it was a glory, a revelation.
She sang on and on, and Siegfried answered; but the eyes of the Singer, and her hands lifted, were toward the House, the orchestra pit, the desk, the baton—the head with its dark hair falling and the arm outstretched.
The curtain fell slowly.
"Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!"
With the flaring up of the lights the House was in an uproar. "Who was she? What was she? Where did she come from? Ah—h! Brünnhilde!"
They clapped and stamped, and shouted themselves hoarse, calling her name: "Brünnhilde!"
"She is there!" cried the Kapellmeister, "Go to her, Velasco; go to her quickly! Gott! I thought the Opera would have come to a standstill! My heart was in my mouth!—Go!"
He pushed the Violinist towards the door and closed it behind him; then he fell back against the wall and listened. The noise in the House was like a mob let loose.
"Brünnhilde! Why doesn't she come? Bring her before the curtain!… Brünnhilde!"
"I must go," he said, "I must speak to them—tell them anything—she is ill—she is exhausted! Something—it doesn't matter! I must go and quiet the tumult!"
The Kapellmeister leaned for a moment against the background of the scenery; he looked at the door and listened. The House was going mad: "Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!"
Then, staggering a little, with his hands to his face, he went out on the stage.
"Kaya!"
"Velasco! Ah, Velasco! Don't come—don't touch—me!"
He sprang forward.
She was still in the Brünnhilde dress with the helmet on her head and the white robes trailing. The spear lay at her feet. He trampled on it as he sprang, snatching her into his arms: "Kaya!"
His grip was like a band of steel and he wound his arms about her, pressing her to him: "Kaya, my beloved! Ah, my beloved—speak to me! Open your eyes! Look at me!" He tore the helmet from her head and flung it to the ground. The red-blonde hair fell back, and he kissed her cheek and her curls.
He was like a whirlwind wooing, and she like a lily blown by the gale. She lay in his arms. Her lips quivered as he kissed them, but she lay without motion or sign.
"Are you faint?" he cried, "Have you swooned? Kaya! It is as if the world had gone to pieces suddenly and this were chaos, and only you and I—only you and I."
He kissed her eyelids.
"Open them, Kaya, they are blue as the sky."
He kissed her throat.
"It swells like a bird's when it trills, and the sound of it is as a nightingale in the twilight."
He kissed her lips.
"Ah, they are warm; they quiver and tremble!"
His arms were so strong she was pinioned, and she panted as she breathed. He kissed her again and again as one who is starving and thirsty, and she stirred in his arms, lifting her face:
"Velasco—my husband—my—self! To lie in your arms—it is heaven, and to leave them is hell! Let me go—Velasco! I love you—I love you! Let me—go!"
"So long as the world lasts and there is strength in my body—never! Say you love me again."
"I love you."
"You will never leave me? You will stay with me always while we live? Say it, Kaya! Your cheeks are white like a sea-shell; they flush like a rose when I press them with my lips! Say it, Kaya! You are trembling—you are sobbing!"
"I must leave you, Velasco—I cannot stay. It is like leaving one's life and one's soul!"
He laughed: "Leave me then! Can you stir from my arms? They are strong. I will hold you forever." He laid his dark, curly head against the gold of her curls, and she felt his breath against her throat.
She opened her eyes: "My hands, Velasco—they are stained with blood; have you forgotten? How can I stay with you when there is—blood on my—hands?"
He pressed her closer: "Give them to me; let me kiss the stains!"
"I am cursed, Velasco, I am cursed! I have taken the life of a man!"
He held his breath suddenly, moving his face until he could see into her eyes. "Ah," he said, "Is that why you left me, Kaya, because of the curse?"
"Yes—Velasco."
"You loved me then! It was a lie? Kaya, tell me!"
"I loved you, Velasco, I loved you!"
"And now—?"
She clung to him and his arms tightened.
Suddenly he laughed again. "Hark!" he cried, "You hear the shouting? They are shouting for you! They are stamping and clapping for you; they are calling your name!" He threw back his head, laughing madly:
"Come—Kaya! Let us go together and peep through the curtain. The first time I saw you, you were there in the House, and I behind on the stage alone, with your violets. Now we are together. You will leave me, you say? Come, Kaya, and look at the House through the curtain. You are trembling, little one; and when I put you down on your feet you can scarcely stand. You are sorry to leave me? It is like tearing one's heart from one's body while one still lives! Will you tear it, beloved? Come—and look through the hole in the curtain."
He put his arm about her, drawing her forward, looking down at her curls. "You are weak, Kaya; your form sways like the stem of a flower. Lean against me. Let me lead you. It is because your heart is so loyal and true; to kill it will be killing yourself! Don't sob, Kaya! Look through the curtain! Hark at the stamping! Look—dear beloved—lean on my shoulder and look!"
"Ah, Velasco, it is like a great mob; the Kapellmeister is there before the curtain. He tries to speak, but they will not listen! They are calling: 'Brünnhilde—Brünnhilde!' Is that for me?"
"For you."
"Why should I look, Velasco—why should I listen? My heart is breaking. I cannot bear it—Velasco!"
"Lean on my shoulder; look again, Kaya, put your eyes to the hole. Do you see a loggia above to the left, full of people standing, and in front some one tall and in uniform?"
"No, Velasco—I see nothing!"
"It is the tears in your eyes, Kaya! Brush them away and look once again. Don't you see him—in uniform, tall with a beaked nose, a grey mustache and his eyes crossed?"
"His eyes crossed—Velasco! Are you mad? He is dead! I tell you, Velasco, he is—dead! The Grand-Duke Stepan!—I killed him!"
"He is not dead."
"The Grand-Duke Ste—"
"He is not dead. He lives and he stands there before you—clapping and shouting your name."
She gazed up at him with trembling lips: "There is no curse, Velasco—he lives? There is—no curse—no stain on my hands? Am I mad? No curse of the Cross—the Black Cross?"
"Kaya—my beloved!"
She fell back slowly against his breast and his arms closed around her.