The Kapellmeister watched the girl on the pallet. He sat leaning back with his arms folded, his head in the shadow, and his face was grim. "She will sleep now," he said to himself, "sleep until I wake her. She is young and strong, and there is no harm done; but she has had some fearful shock, and it has shaken her like a slender birch struck by a storm. I will send my old Marta, and she will look after her--poor little bird!"
Kaya lay on her side with her face half turned to the pillow; her cheek was flushed and her breath came gently through the arch of her lips. Her curls were like a halo about her, and her right hand lay on the blanket limp, small and white with the fingers relaxed.
"I am getting to be an old man," said the Kapellmeister to himself, "and my heart is seared; but if I had a daughter, and she looked like that--I would throw over the Tsar and all his kingdom. The great Juggernaut of Autocracy has gone over her, and her wings are bruised. It is only her voice that can save her now."
He rose to his feet slowly, and in the dim light of the moon his hair was silvered, and he seemed weary and worn. He stood by the pallet, looking down at the slim, still figure for a moment; and his hand stole out and touched a strand of her hair. Then he covered her gently. "Sleep," he said, "Sleep!" And he turned and went out, closing the door.
"Is it only a week that I have been ill, Marta? It seems like a month."
"A week and a day, Fräulein; but you are better now, and to-morrow, the Doctor says you shall go out on the promenade and smell of the rose buds."
Kaya was half lying, half seated on the pallet, with her hands clasped behind her head; she was dressed in a blue gown, worn and shabby but spotlessly neat, and her throat and her arms were bare. "But how soon can I sing, Marta? Did he say when? Did you hear him?"
The old nurse sat by the bed-side, knitting and counting her stitches aloud to herself from time to time.
"One--two--four--seven!" she mumbled, "Sing, Fräulein? Ah, who can tell! You are weak yet."
"No," said Kaya, "I am strong; see my arms. I can stand up quite well and walk about the room with the help of your shoulder; you know I can, Marta."
The old woman gave her a glance over her spectacles: "Seven--ten!" she repeated, "If it were your spirit, Fräulein, you would be Samson himself; but your body--" She shook her head: "Na, when the master comes, ask him yourself. It is he who has talked with the Doctor, not I."