off again, I saw him, as he stood behind the
screen, gazing directly over our heads, suddenly raise his violin to
his ear and slowly draw the bow across the strings.

Almost before we could realize what had happened, he crossed the
stage, stepped to his stand, and drew his bow downward.

The applause died sharply on the crest of a crescendo, and left the
air trembling. There was a sudden hush. A few sank back in their
seats, but most of them remained standing where they were, just as we
behind him were suddenly fixed in our positions.

I have since heard a deal of argument as to the use and power of
music as the voice of thought. I was not then--and I am not now--of
that school which holds music to be a medium to transmit anything but
musical ideas. So, of the effect of Rodriguez's music on my mind, or
the possibility that, for some occult reason, I was for the moment _en
rapport_ with him, as after events forced me to believe, I shall enter
into no discussion. I am merely going to record, to the best of my
ability, my thoughts, as I remember them. I no more presume to explain
why they came to me, than I do to analyse my trust in immortality.

As he drew his bow downward, as the first chord filled my ears,
everything else faded away.

There was the merest prelude, and then the theme, which appeared,
disappeared and re-appeared again and again to be woven about every
emotion, at once developed and dominated me.

I seemed at first to hear its melody in the fresh morning air, where
it soared upward above the gentle breezes, mingling in harmony with
the matins of the birds and the softly rustling trees. Hopeful as
youth, careless as the wind, it sang in gladness and in trust. Then I
heard the same melody throb under the noonday glow of summer. Its tone
was broadened and sweetened, but still brave and pure, when all else
in Nature, save its clear voice, seemed sensuous. I saw gardens in a
riot of color; felt love at its passionate consummation, ere the light
seemed to fade slowly toward the sunset hour. The world was still
pulsing with color, but the grey of twilight was slowly enwrapping it.
Then the simple melody soared above the day's peacefullest hour, firm
in promise on the hushed air. In the mystery of night which followed,
when black clouds snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the silence
had something of terror even for the brave, that same steadfast loving
hopeful theme moved on, consoling as trust in immo