the shrinking figure still lower; his arm pressed her shoulder. She struggled with him blindly, still sobbing. 

 "Now, by heaven," cried Velasco, "If you are to be my wife, I'll see your face at least. Be still, Madame, be still!" 

 The woman cowered away from him, holding out her hands, pressing him back.  "I beg of you—I beseech you," she said, "Not my face! No—no, Monsieur!" 

 She gazed at him in terror, and as she gazed, the hood slipped back from her hair; it fell in a golden flood to her shoulders, curling in little rings and waves about her forehead, her neck; veiling her face. She gave a cry. 

 Velasco stood for a moment petrified, staring down into the frightened eyes that were like twin wells of blue fixed on his own. Then he leaped forward, snatched at the cloak, flung out his arms,—he had clasped the air. She was gone. The door slammed back in his face and the sound of her hurrying footsteps, light as a bird's, fled in the distance. 

 He was all alone in the room. 

 Velasco rubbed his eyes with his hand and stared about him, strangely, mechanically, like a sleep-walker.  "What a dream! Ye gods, what a dream!"  He stretched his limbs yawning and laughed aloud; then he paled suddenly. Was it a dream; or no—impossible. On the sleeve of his black velvet jacket something glistened and sparkled, a thread as of gold, fine and slender like silk, invisible almost as the fibrous strings of his bow. 

 He raised it between his fingers. Then slowly, heavily, he went back to his seat before the fire-place and flung himself down. 

 The lamp-light fell on the Persian rug dimly, flickeringly, the colours were soft as an ancient fresco; the jewels were gone, and the coals burned lower, dying. He lit a cigarette and began to smoke. The violin was in his arms. He played low to himself, dreamily, fitfully, his eyes half closed, dark slits beneath the brows. 

 At his feet lay the violets crushed and strewn; a twist of paper creased, blotted. 

 The light of the lamp grew dimmer. The malachite clock struck again and again. The night passed. 

 

 

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