“Adrian, are you crazy? Upon my word, I almost believe you are! Running away as you did last night and coming back again to-day, in this wild fashion. What do you mean? Who is this—this young person? And what in the world do you, can you, possibly, want of Number 526?”
He paid no attention to her many questions, nor even to his mother who clutched his arm in extreme agitation. He had caught the tones of a violin played softly, tenderly, and oh! so sadly.
“Yes, that’s Number 526, since you wish to see him, though it’s quite against the rules and—he’s practicing with his men——”
“Come, Margot. Come.”
The player was in the little alcove behind the screen and palms, and did not even look up as the two entered his presence, for his own soul had floated far away from that dread place, on the strains of that music which no prison bars could confine.
“Father!”
“MY FATHER! I HAVE COME”
The music ceased, but only for an instant. Once the player had heard a voice like that—clear, sweet, exquisitely modulated. The voice of the wife he had loved, silent in death these many years. But the tone had been sufficient to stir his soul to even deeper harmonies: and he stood there forgetful of his shaven head, his prison stripes, once more a man among men.