Ye G.o.ds! I never felt such cold. My fingers are like frozen sticks.

There! Now, the Station: Warchavski Voksal--as fast as you can! Ugh, what a storm!"

The Violinist flung himself back in the corner of the kareta, huddling himself in the furs; the windows were shut and his breath made a steam against the panes. The carriage was black as a cave.

"There ought to be another fur!" he said angrily to himself. His teeth were chattering and his whole body shivered against the cushions. "I told Bobo to put in an extra fur. The devil now, where can it be?"

He groped with his hands, feeling the seat beside him, when all of a sudden he gave an exclamation, alarmed, half suppressed, his eyes staring into the darkness, trying vainly to penetrate.

What was it? Something was there, moving, breathing, alive, on the seat close beside him. Gracious heaven! He wasn't alone! Velasco crouched back instinctively, putting out both hands as if to ward off a blow. He listened, peering. Surely something breathed--there, in the corner! He could make out a shadow, an outline.--No, nothing--it was nothing at all.

His pulses beat rapidly; he groped again with his hands, slowly, fearfully, hesitating and then groping again. It was as though something, someone were trying to elude him in the darkness. His breath came fast; he listened again.

Something cowered and breathed--"Bozhe moi!" He gripped his lip with his teeth and hurled himself forward, grappling into the furthermost recesses of the kareta. His hands grasped a cloak, a human shoulder, a body. It dragged away from him. He clutched it and something shrank back into the shadows. His eyes were blind; he could see nothing, he could hear nothing; he could only feel. It was breathing.

His hand moved cautiously over the cloak, the shoulder. It resisted him, trying vainly to escape; and then, as the carriage dashed on through the darkness, he dragged the thing forward, nearer--nearer, struggling. The breath was on his cheeks. He felt it distinctly--the rustle of something alive.

Velasco clenched his teeth together, clutching the thing, and held it under the window-pane, close, close, straining forward. As he did so the rays of a street lamp fell through the gla.s.s, a faint, pale light through the steam on the panes; a flash and it was over. Velasco gave a cry.

Beside him was a woman, slight and veiled, and she was crouching away from him, holding her hands before her face, panting, frightened, even as he was.

"Who are you?" cried Velasco, "What are you? Speak, for the love of heaven! I feel as if I were going mad. Speak!"

He shook the cloak in his trembling grasp and, as he did so, a hand pressed into his own. It was bare, and soft like the leaf of a rose.

He grasped it. The fingers clung to him, alive and warm. Velasco hesitated. Then he dropped the hand and from his pocket he s.n.a.t.c.hed a match, striking it against the side of the carriage. It sputtered and went out. He struck another. It flickered for a moment and he held it between his hands, coaxing it. It burned and he held it out, gazing into the corner, coming nearer and nearer. The eyes gleamed at him from behind the veil; nearer--He could see the oval of the face, the lips. Then the match went out.

"Kaya--Kaya!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed at her hand again in the darkness and held it under the fur. "You came after all," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "I thought I had dreamed it. Speak to me; let me hear your voice."

He felt her bending towards him; her shoulder touched his. "You promised--I hold you to your promise."

"Yes; yes!"

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No.--Don't take your hand away. No! It is horrible, the storm and the blackness. Hear the wind shriek! The hoofs of the horses are padded with snow; they are galloping. How the carriage lurches and sways! Are you afraid, Kaya? Don't--don't take your hand away."

Velasco's voice was husky and forced like a string out of tune. It was strange, extraordinary to be sitting there in that dark, black cave, his hand clasping the hand of a woman, a stranger. The two sat silent.

The horses plunged forward.

Suddenly they stopped. Velasco started as out of a dream and sprang to the window, wiping the steam from the panes with his sleeve.

"Bobo!" he cried, "Madman! This is not the Station. Where are you going, idiot--fool!"

His voice was smothered suddenly by a hand across his lips.

"Hush, Monsieur, have you forgotten? The driver knows, he is one of us. Come with me; and I pray you, I beseech you, don't speak, don't make a sound; step softly and follow."

In a moment the girl was out of the carriage and Velas...o...b..hind. Her veil fluttered back; her cloak brushed his shoulder. The storm and the wind beat against them. He ran blindly forward, battling with the gale; but fast as he went she went faster. He could scarcely keep up.

In the distance behind them, the carriage and horses were lost in a white mist, a whirl.

"Here," she cried, "Bow your head, quick, the arch--and then through the gate--run! Take my hand in the court--let me lead you. I know every step. Run--run! You waited so long; we shall be late. There is barely time before the train. Ah, run, Monsieur--run!"

The two figures dashed through the alley and into an open cloister, running with their heads bowed against the wind, struggling with the snow in their eyes, in their throats; blinded, panting.

"Stop!" gasped Velasco, "I can't run like this. Stop! You mad thing, you witch! Where, where are you going? Stop, I tell you!"

She dragged at his hand. "Come--a moment further. Come, Monsieur.

Ah, it is death--don't falter. Run!"

She caught at a little door under the wall and pushed it madly. It yielded. He sprang in behind her; and then he stood blinking, amazed.

They were alone in the dark, ghostly nave of a huge Church. The long rows of columns stretched out in the distance, tall and stately like pines in a forest; the aisles were broad and shadowy, leading far off in a distant perspective to the outline of an altar and a high cross suspended. They were dim, barely visible.

"Where are we?" he murmured, faltering. "Kaya, speak--tell me."

She put up her face close to his and he saw that her lips were quivering, her eyes blurred with tears. Her veil was white with the snow, like a bride's. She dragged at his hand, and he followed her dumbly, their footsteps echoing, a soft patter across the marble of the church.

It was absolutely dark; only on the far distant altar three candles were lighted, three sparks, red and restless, like fireflies gleaming.

Otherwise the nave, the chancel, the transepts were as one vast blackness stretching before them. They fled on in silence; their goal was the candles.

At first the s.p.a.ce before the altar seemed empty, deserted, like the rest of the Church; but as they approached, nearer and nearer, three forms seemed to melt from the back of the choir and stood on the steps; two were figures in cloaks; the third was a priest. His surplice shone in the shadows against the outline of the columns. He mounted the steps of the altar and stood with his face to the cross. They seemed to be waiting.

To Velasco the sound of his footsteps echoed and reverberated on the marble, filling the darkness. The noise of them was terrible. He would have covered his ears with his hands, but the girl urged him forward. The soft fingers crept about his own like a vine, clinging, irresistible.

"Come," she breathed, "ah, come, Monsieur--come!"

Then he followed, moving forward hurriedly, blindly, like one hypnotized. His senses were dulled; his will was inert. When he came to himself he was kneeling beside her on the marble, and he heard the voice of the priest, chanting slowly in Slavonic:

"Blessed is our G.o.d always, and ever, and unto ages of ages.

"In peace let us pray to the Lord for the servant of G.o.d, Velasco, and for the hand-maid of G.o.d, Kaya, who now plight each other their troth, and for their salvation. . . . That he will send down upon them perfect and peaceful love. . . . That he will preserve them in oneness of mind and in steadfastness of faith. . . . That he will bless them with a blameless life. . . . That he will deliver us from all tribulation, wrath, peril and necessity. . . . Lord have mercy!

"Lord have mercy!"

He listened in bewilderment; was it himself, or his ghost, his shadow.

He tried to think, but everything melted before him in a mist. The girl by his side was a wraith; they were dead, and this was some strange unaccountable happening in another world. The marble felt cold to his knees. Velasco tried to move, to rise, but the hand of the priest held him down. The voice chanted on:

"Hast thou, Velasco, a good, free and unconstrained will and a firm intention to take unto thyself to wife this woman, Kaya, whom thou seest here before thee?"

And in the pause, he heard himself answering, strangely, dreamily, in a voice that was not his own:

"I have, reverend Father."

"Thou hast not promised thyself to any other bride?"