er seemed factitious, mere excrescences on the fair surface of
art. But he was a born colorist, and sought to arouse the imagination by
stupendous orchestral effects, frescoes of tone wherein might be
discerned terrifying perspectives, sinister avenues of drooping trees
melting into iron dusks. If Pobloff was a mathematician, he was also a
painter-poet. He did not credit the theory of the alienists, that the
confusion of tone and color--_audition coloree_--betrayed the existence
of a slight mental lesion; and he laughed consumedly at the notion of
confounding musicians with madmen.

"Then my butcher and baker are just as mad," he asserted; and swore that
a man could both pray and think of eating at the same time. Why should
the highly organized brain of a musician be considered abnormal because
it could see tone, hear color, and out of a mixture of sound and
silence, fashion images of awe and sweetness for a wondering,
unbelieving world? If Man is a being afloat in an ocean of vibrations,
as Maurice de Fleury wrote, then any or all vibrations are possible. Why
not a synthesis? Why not a transposition of the _neurons_--according to
Ramon y Cajal being little erectile bodies in the cells of the cortex,
stirred to reflex motor impulse when a message is sent them from the
sensory nerves? The crossing of filaments occurs oftener than imagined,
and Pobloff, knowing these things, had boundless faith in his
enterprise. So when he cried aloud, "I have it!" he really believed that
at last he saw the way clear; and his symphonic poem was to be the key
which would unlock the great mystery of existence.

II

Rehearsal had been called at eight o'clock, a late hour for Balak, which
rises early only to get ready the sooner for the luxury of a long
afternoon siesta. The conductor of the Royal Filharmonie Orchestra had
sent out brief enough notice to his men; but they were in the opera
house before he arrived. Pobloff believed in discipline; when he reached
the stage, he cast a few quick glances about him: fifty-two men in all
sat in their accustomed places; his concertmaster, Sven, was nodding at
the leader. Then Pobloff surveyed the auditorium, its depths dimly
lighted by the few clusters of lights on the platform; white linen
coverings made more ghastly the background. He thought he saw some one
moving near the main door. "Who's that?" He rapped sharply for an answer
but none came. Sven said that the women who cleaned the opera ho