"A night to make music," whispered a deep, sweet voice. Before he could rise, his heart bounding as if stung to its centre, a woman, swathed in white, sat beside him, touched him, put such a pressure upon his shoulder that his blood began to stir. It was she. He stumbled in his speech. She laughed, and he ground his teeth, for this alone saved him from foolishness, from mad behaviour.
"Maestro--you could make music this lovely night?" Pobloff started.
"In God's name, who are you, and what are you doing here? Where did you go this evening? I missed you. Ah! unhappy man that I am, you will drive me crazy!"
She did not smile now, but pressed close to him.
"I am a prisoner--like yourself," she replied simply.
"A prisoner! How a prisoner? I am not a prisoner, but an envoy from my king to the sick princeling."
"The poor, mad prince," she said, "he is in need of your medicine, sadly. He sent for me a year ago, and I am now his prisoner for life."
"But I saw you on the train, a day's journey hence," interrupted the musician.
"Yes, I had escaped, and was being taken back by black Hamet when we met."
Pobloff whistled. So the mystery was disclosed. A little white slave from the seraglio of this embryo tyrant had flown the cage! No wonder she was watched, little surprise that she did not care to eat. He straightened himself, the hair on his round head like porcupine quills.
"My dear young lady," he exclaimed in accents paternal, "leave all to me. If you do not wish to stay in this place, you may rely on me. When I see this same young man,--he must be a nice sprig of royalty!--I propose to tell him what I think of him." Pobloff threw out his chest and snorted with pride. Again he fancied that he heard suppressed laughter. He darted glances in every direction, but the fall of distant waters smote upon his ears like the crepuscular music of Chopin. His companion shook with ill-suppressed emotion. It was some time before she could speak.
"Pobloff," she begged, in her dangerous contralto, a contralto like the medium register of a clarinet, "Pobloff, let me adjure you to be careful. Your coming here has caused political disturbances. The aunt of the prince hates music as much as he adores it. She is no party to your invitation. So be on your guard. Even now there may be spies in the shrubbery." She put her hand on his arm. It was too much. In an instant, despite her feeble struggle, the ardent musician grasped the creature that had tantalized him since morning, and kissed her a dozen times. His head whirled. Pobloff! Pobloff! a voice cried in his brain--and only yesterday you left your Luga, your pretty pigeon, your wife!