the Shadow that sleeps. Our souls
slink behind our shields; our women and children hide in the
caves; the time is near, and night is our day. Softly, with
feet of moss, the Shadow stalks out of the South. The
brilliant eye of the Sun is blotted over, and with a
remorseless mantle of mist the silvery cusp of the new moon
is enfolded. Follow fast the stars, the little brethren of
the sky; and like a huge bolster of fog the Shadow scales
the ramparts of the dawn. We are lost in the blur of doom,
and the long sleep of the missing months is heavy upon our
eyelids. We rail not at the coward Sun-God who fled fearing
the Shadow, but creep noiselessly to the caves. Our shields
are cast aside, unloosed are our stone hatchets, and the
fire lags low on the hearth. Without, the Shadow has
swallowed the earth; the cry of our hounds stilled as by the
hand of snow. The Shadow rolls into our caves; our brain is
benumbed by its caresses; it closes the porches of the ear,
and gently strikes down our warring members. Supine, routed
we rest; and above all, above the universe, is the silence
of the Shadow.

"Arthur has had his revenge," she murmured, and of a sudden went sick;
the house was black about her as she almost swooned.... The old pride
kept her up, and she looked about the thinly filled galleries; the
concert commenced; she listened indifferently to the overture. When
Vibert came on the stage and bowed, she noticed that he seemed rather
worn but he was active and played with more power and brilliancy than
she ever before recalled. He was very masterful, and that was a new note
in his music. And when the songs came, he led out a pretty, slim girl,
and with evident satisfaction accompanied her at the piano. The three
songs were charming. She remembered them. But who was this soprano?
Arthur was evidently interested in her; the orchestra watched the pair
sympathetically.

So the elopement had not killed him! Indeed he seemed to have thriven
artistically since her desertion! Ellenora sat in the black gulf called
despair, devoured by vain regrets. Was it the man or his music she
regretted? At last the Symphonic Poem! The strong Gothic head of Anton
Seidl was seen, and the music began....

The natural bent of Arthur for the mystic, the supernatural, was
understood by his wife. Here was frosty music, dazzling music, in wh