All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. ‘Melusine. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door.
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