"Velasco! Viva!—Velasco! Bravo—bravissimo!"
Over the packed Theatre the handkerchiefs waved like a myriad of white banners. The bravos redoubled. The women tore the flowers from their girdles to fling on the stage; they lay piled on the white boards about him, broken and sweet, their perfume filling the air.
The young Violinist bowed, his hand on his heart, smiled and bowed again. He went out by the little door, and then came back and bowed and bowed.
The House rose as one man.
"Velasco! Velas—co!" It was deafening.
Suddenly out of the uproar, out of the crowd and the din, from someone, from somewhere, a bunch of violets fell at his feet. He raised them to his lips with a smile. "Viva—Velas—co—o!" The clapping redoubled.
About the stems of the violets, twined and intertwined again, was a twist of paper. His eyes fell for an instant on the blotted words and then the stage door closed behind him. They were few and almost illegible.
"Will you help me—life or death—tonight? Kaya." The rest was a blot. He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his eyes.
"Velasco! Velasco—Viva!"
When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes flashed to the eyes of the girl like steel to a magnet. They seemed to plead, to wrestle with him.