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Updated: June 9, 2025
The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were shining. Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it: "Sit down, Velasco. Will you have a pipe, or cigar? You look exhausted, man! This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale as death.
Besides possessing several priceless examples by the old masters, there are many admirable pictures, the result of native talent, which are remarkable for their conception and execution. Two large canvases by José Maria Velasco, representing the Valley of Mexico, form fine and striking landscapes which few modern painters can equal.
He murmured again, tossing uneasily; and she fell backwards in the straw, gazing at him, with her arms locked over her breast and her heart throbbing madly. "No he is asleep!" she said, "He is fast asleep! Another hour, and then in the dusk I will wake him. He will play for the dancing Velasco! The greatest violinist in all Russia he will play for the peasants to dance!"
It is madness!" Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry. "I can't bear it," he cried, "open the door! Damn you, Ritter, get out of the way!" Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister, and then Ritter fell back. The clutch on his shoulder was like iron. He fell back, and the door slammed. "Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him like that?
He could see no more of the room beyond than a narrow patch of wall fitfully illuminated by a play of violet light. Then a man stepped out of this operating room, turning on the threshold to utter some parting observation; and Lanyard retired hastily to the shaft of the minaret stairway, but not before recognising Velasco.
Go at once and stay until morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the table that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly." After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps, scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring into the coals.
"Not a second to spare!" cried Velasco, "Send the trunks after me, Bobo Here my valise!" He snatched up his violin-case, and the slim, dark-veiled figure darted beside him. "If we miss it!" he heard her crying in his ear, "I shall never forgive myself! I shall never forgive myself!" "We shan't miss it!" cried Velasco, "I have the tickets, the passports for you and for me! Here to the left!
"Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember." He passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his memory. Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the wood with his fingers. "Fourteen years to-night, Velasco.
What was it you did?" "Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right. I could not help myself, I could not. I had taken the oath. I was only the instrument." "The what ?" said Velasco. "If you were an instrument I should take you in my arms and play on you. The strings would be the strands of your hair and my bow would caress them.
Meanwhile, Velasco, racked to the marrow by the pains which tortured him, and driven by a desire to drop the dagger and plead for his life and by fear of parting with his weapon, was urged to despair, and finally to desperation. All the supplication that his face and eyes could show pleaded eloquently for him, and with this silent pleading came evidence of his physical agony.
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