ng to his music with
delight.

It was worth hearing, indeed, for under his masterly touch the
instrument sang, laughed and wept, and whispered love-words at his
will; now, one high string pleaded its passionate melody to a low and
sighing accompaniment that never swelled to reach it; and now, the
nineteen strings sounded together as a full orchestra, bursting in
triumphant harmonies, and almost deafening to hear; again, the deepest
string began a fugue that was taken up by the next above and the next,
and traversed all, gathering sonorous strength as the parts increased
from two to three, from three to four, all moving at once to the grand
climax, and then sinking again and falling away one by one, softer and
softer to the solemn close.

Stradella was profoundly happy, and he had but one way of expressing his
happiness to himself, which was the most beautiful way there is, for he
made the art he loved his means of telling the world his joy.

Later, when the window was open, and the young moon was shedding a
gentle light upon the broad square, he began to sing softly, wondering
that he should have any voice left after what he had suffered; but great
singers are not like other men, at least as to their throats, and after
a few trials the rich notes floated out deliciously, as effortless and
as true, as soft and as strong as ever, in those marvellous love-songs
of his own that thrilled all Italy while he lived, and long afterwards.

The Bravi had turned their chairs to listen, for he had gone to the
window. They had finished their Burgundy, and most of his share to boot,
and peace had descended on their restless souls; and if, from all the
delights the world held, they could have chosen one for that May
evening, they would have asked for none but this, to sit and listen to
the greatest of living singers and musicians, deeply in love, and
singing more for himself than that any one might hear him.

'It is absolutely impossible,' said Trombin gravely to his companion,
when Stradella paused at last.

'Absolutely,' assented Gambardella.

'What is impossible?' the singer asked carelessly.

'To sing better than you,' answered Gambardella with a short laugh.

CHAPTER XII

Quite out of sight in the choir, more than sixty nuns and at least as
many of their girl pupils were still chanting matins when Stradella and
the two Bravi entered the Church of San Domenico, followed by Cucurullo.
The latter's fellow-servant