"Your hair is like down," said Velasco, "a soft, golden fluff. I can't see it, or you; are you there? I shouldn't know if I didn't feel you breathing, and the touch of your head and your hand. Go to sleep; I will watch."
She murmured and stirred in his arms.
"Yes, yes, I forgive you. I never was angry. If only they haven't hurt my violin, my Stradivarius! If they do, I shall drown myself!—But don't think of it; don't speak of it. Be still and sleep."
She murmured again. He laid his cheek to her hair and they sat silent, the girl half unconscious, Velasco staring out into the darkness, his face white and set.
There was a stirring of something within him impossible to fathom; something apart from himself, strange and different, like the birth of a soul; a second personality, unknown, unrevealed. His heavy eyes gleamed through the slits. The round of his chin stiffened; his mouth took new lines. The luxurious artist personality of the musician was dormant for the first time in his life; his virile and masculine side had begun to awaken. The muscles of his arm swelled suddenly and he felt a strange beating in his heart.
This girl, this stranger! She was helpless, dependent on him and his strength. He would guard her and protect her with his life. His arms were around her and no one should take her from him—no one! Not the Tsar himself! She was breathing, she was there; she was a woman and he was a man, and his strength was as the strength of a lion. What harm could befall her?
He bent his head on his breast and his lips touched her hair. Across the sodden floor of the prison, suddenly, came the first rays of dawn falling aslant, touching the shadows, the two figures crouching, the rats as they fled.
Velasco drew the cloak closer about the sleeping form of the girl, with a tender, protecting gesture. His eyes were alert. He had forgotten himself; he had forgotten his violin; he had forgotten his art. He was facing the sunlight grim and determined.