insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from
a block of wood, or a note from a pin head." His eyes drooped again.
The Cossack examined him narrowly.

"If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khorosho[1]! then prove
it. There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a
fiddle. Brr--Ivanovitch, go for it. No. 17,369, in the third
compartment, by the wall. That isn't a bad idea!" He rubbed his hands
together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the
one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your
impudence. You can't cheat me." He laughed loud and long.

Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming,
his mind far away. The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a
roof, rolling off, leaving no sign.

The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly. She pressed
them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white;
then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the
confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her
brow and her cheeks.

"Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle.
Now, for a lark! Brr--Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical--ha
ha! No, stop! I will keep the fun to myself. Shut the door. Is the
Chief here yet?"

"No, Gospodin."

"Sapristi! Never mind, shut the door--shut the door!"

Velasco roused suddenly. He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then
he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his
hands. His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little
leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief.

"My violin, my treasure! My beloved, give it to me! You brute, you
great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you! Out
of my way! Let it go--or I'll strike you!--Let go!"

He snatched the case to his breast and carried it over to the table,
opening it, unfolding the wrappings. They were silken and heavy. The
violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening
yellow, golden and resinous. He touched it tenderly, lifting it,
examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been
bruised.

The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their
helmets. The girl watched him with wistful eyes. She understood. It
was the artist-temperament in full command. The man had vanished, the
musician was