But no sound left her throat, and the cloak pinioned her arms. She was crouching against the wall, and gazing and trembling: "Velasco—!"
How different he was! When he had played at the Mariínski, and she had tossed the violets from her loggia, he was a boy, a virtuoso. Life and fame were before him; and he sprang out on the stage like a young Apollo, eager and daring. And now— She searched his face.
There were lines there; shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were thin. The lower part of his face was like a rock, firm and harsh; and his brows were heavy and swollen. Before, he had played with his fingers, and toyed with his art; now he played with his heart and his soul. His youth was gone; he was a man. He had known life and suffered.
She stared at him, and her hands were convulsed, clasping one another under the cloak. An impulse came over her to throw herself from the gallery at his feet, as she had flung the violets; and she crouched closer against the wall, clinging to it.
"Velasco!—Velasco!"
A roar went up from the House.
The sound of the clapping was like rain falling; a mighty volume of sound, deafening, frightening.
Kaya crouched still lower. He had taken the violin from his cheek and was bowing; his eyes scanned the House with a nonchalant air.
"Bravo—Velasco!"
The people were standing now and stamping, and screaming his name. They hid him, and she could not see. Kaya leaned forward, her gold hair gleaming in the light, her eyes fixed.