nd, as it were, ready to catch him if he fell.
He bowed his head lower and lower, he looked up with an ecstasy more
and more intense, according to the procedure of his Marche Funebre. And
among the audience, too, there was a bowing and uplifting of heads, just
as among the figures of the mourners evoked. Yet the head of the player
himself was all the while erect, and his face glad and serene. Nobly
sensitive as was his playing of the mournful passages, he smiled
brilliantly through them.

And Zuleika returned his gaze with a smile not less gay. She was not
sure what he was playing. But she assumed that it was for her, and that
the music had some reference to his impending death. She was one of the
people who say "I don't know anything about music really, but I know
what I like." And she liked this; and she beat time to it with her fan.
She thought her Duke looked very handsome. She was proud of him. Strange
that this time yesterday she had been wildly in love with him! Strange,
too, that this time to-morrow he would be dead! She was immensely glad
she had saved him this afternoon. To-morrow! There came back to her what
he had told her about the omen at Tankerton, that stately home: "On the
eve of the death of a Duke of Dorset, two black owls come always and
perch on the battlements. They remain there through the night, hooting.
At dawn they fly away, none knows whither." Perhaps, thought she, at
this very moment these two birds were on the battlements.

The music ceased. In the hush that followed it, her applause rang sharp
and notable. Not so Chopin's. Of him and his intense excitement none but
his companion was aware. "Plus fin que Pachmann!" he reiterated, waving
his arms wildly, and dancing.

"Tu auras une migraine affreuse. Rentrons, petit coeur!" said George
Sand, gently but firmly.

"Laisse-moi le saluer," cried the composer, struggling in her grasp.

"Demain soir, oui. Il sera parmi nous," said the novelist, as she
hurried him away. "Moi aussi," she added to herself, "je me promets un
beau plaisir en faisant la connaissance de ce jeune homme."

Zuleika was the first to rise as "ce jeune homme" came down from the
dais. Now was the interval between the two parts of the programme.
There was a general creaking and scraping of pushed-back chairs as the
audience rose and went forth into the night. The noise aroused from
sleep the good Warden, who, having peered at his programme, complimented
the Duke with old-wo