She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her, and lighting with fluttering wings.
"I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back! God knows—I have tried to atone!"
Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with them.
Suddenly the door opened.
"Is it you, Marta?"
"No, it is I."
The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm. They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure.
"Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master! You will frighten the doves! See, how they press against me with their breasts and their wings—and how they flutter! They were hungry this morning, but they have eaten now and are happy. Once they came to me and I had nothing for them. If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed them, not I."
"You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya. I heard you from the promenade and I saw you. Your curls were like a halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing. One was on your shoulder. Ah, it has gone now—I have startled it! It was close to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips."
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes. It is sweet to be able to feed them. You have fed us both, dear Master."