, boiling scales and
flashes of clear sky. The window he faced looked out upon the park.
Beyond the copper gleam from the great, erect synagogue was the placid
toy lake with its rim of moving children; the trees swept smoothly in a
huge semi-circle, and at their verge was the driveway. The glow of the
afternoon, the purity of the air, and the glancing metal on the rolling
carriages made a gay picture for the artist. But he was not long at
ease, though his eyes rested gratefully upon the green foliage. The
interrogative note in the music betrayed inquietude, even mental
turbulence.

A certain firmness of features, long, narrow eyes set under a square
forehead, heavily accented cheek-bones, almost Calmuck in width, a
straight feminine nose, beckoning black hair--these, and a distinction
of bearing made Belus the eighth wonder of his day. That is what the
hypnotized ones averred. Master of a complex art, his nature complex,
the synthesis was irresistible. His expression was complicated; he had
not a frank gaze, nor did he meet his friends without a nameless
reticence. This veiled manner made him difficult to decipher. Upon the
stage Belus was like a desert cat, a gliding movement almost
incorporeal, a glance of feline intensity, and then--the puissant attack
upon the keyboard. As in sullen dreams one struggles to throw off the
spell of hypnotic suggestion, so there were many who mutely fought his
power, questioning with rebellious soul his right to conquer. But
conquer he did--so all the conservatory pupils said. A steady stream of
victorious tone came from under his supple fingers, and his instrument
of shallow thunders and tinkling wires sang as if an archangel had
smote it, celestially sang. Belus was the Raphael of the piano, and
master of the emotional world. His planetary music gathered about him
women, the ailing, the sorrowful, the mad, and there were days when
these Maenads could have slain him in their excess of nervous fury, as
was slain Bacchus of old. Thus wrote some enthusiastic critics of the
impressionist school.

Zora came in. She was brune and broad, her eyes of changeful color, and
her temper wifely. Belus flashed his fingers in the air, and she bowed
her head. His own language was Hungarian, that tongue of tender and
royal assonances, but Zora had never heard it. She was quite deaf; and
so, barred from the splendors of this magician's inner court, she ever
watched his face with a curiosity that honeyc