o the door,' I whispered.

He hesitated, and then we heard footsteps receding down the corridor.
Diaz went slowly to the door, opened it wide, slipped out into the
corridor, and looked into the darkness.

'Curious!' he commented tranquilly. 'I see no one.'

He came back into the room and shut the door softly, and seemed thereby
to shut us in, to enclose us against the world in a sweet domesticity of
our own. The fire was burning brightly, the glasses and the decanter on
the small table spoke of cheer, the curtains were drawn, and through a
half-open door behind the piano one had a hint of a mysterious other
room; one could see nothing within it save a large brass knob or ball,
which caught the light of the candle on the piano.

'You were startled,' he said. 'You must have a little more of our
cordial--just a spoonful.'

He poured out for me an infinitesimal quantity, and the same for himself.

I sighed with relief as I drank. My terror left me. But the trifling
incident had given me the clearest perception of what I was doing, and
that did not leave me.

We sat down a second time to the piano.

'You understand,' he explained, staring absently at the double page of
music, 'this is the garden scene. When the curtain goes up it is dark in
the garden, and Isolda is there with her maid Brangaena. The king, her
husband, has just gone off hunting--you will hear the horns dying in the
distance--and Isolda is expecting her lover, Tristan. A torch is burning
in the wall of the castle, and as soon as she gives him the signal by
extinguishing it he comes to her. You will know the exact moment when
they meet. Then there is the love-scene. Oh! when we arrive at that you
will be astounded. You will hear the very heart-beats of the lovers. Are
you ready?'

'Yes.'

We began to play. But it was ridiculous. I knew it would be ridiculous.
I was too dazed, and artistically too intimidated, to read the notes.
The notes danced and pranced before me. All I could see on my page was
the big black letters at the top, 'Zweiter Aufzug.' And furthermore, on
that first page both the theme and the accompaniment were in the bass of
the piano. Diaz had scarcely anything to do. I threw up my hands and
closed my eyes.

'I can't,' I whispered, 'I can't. I would if I could.'

He gently took my hand.

'My dear companion,' he said, 'tell me your name.'

I was surprised. Memories of the Bible, for some inexplicable reason,
flashed through my