He stooped over the pillow and looked into her eyes: "Come, child," he said, "Will you be my bird? Promise me! You won't think of that again—I can trust you? If I leave you now—"
Kaya put out her hands and clung to him suddenly, clasping his arm with her fingers. "I won't," she said, "I will live, and study, and do my best—and some day you think I shall be a singer? Oh, tell me truly! That is just what Helmanoff said, but when I asked them to hear me—I went to so many, so many!—they were always engaged, or—" She caught her breath a little, stumbling over the words: "You think so—truly?"
"I think so truly," said the Kapellmeister, "You must come to see me at the Opera-House to-morrow and rehearse your part, and I will teach you. You shall have your honorarium to-night in advance; and you must eat and grow strong."
"I will," said Kaya.
There was a new resolve in her tone, fresh hope, and she put her hand to her throat instinctively, as if to imprison the voice inside and keep it from escaping.
"Has the miller gone?" she asked.
"Yes," said Ritter, "He is gone and the door is closed; we are alone."
"Then put your head lower," whispered the girl, "and I will tell you. Perhaps, when you—know!"
"Go on," said the Kapellmeister, "I am here, child, close to you, and no one shall hurt you. Don't tremble."
"Do you see my hands?" said the girl, "Look at them. They are stained with blood—stained with— Ah, you draw away!"