Her rich black hair was arranged a la Marguerite, and hung down in one long loose thick braid that nearly reached the end of her dress, and she was attired in a robe of deep old gold Indian silk as soft as cashmere, which was gathered in round her waist by an antique belt of curious jewel-work, in which rubies and turquoises seemed to be thickly studded. On her bosom shone a strange gem, the colour and form of which I could not determine. It was never the same for two minutes together. It glowed with many various hues--now bright crimson, now lightning-blue, sometimes deepening into a rich purple or tawny orange. Its lustre was intense, almost dazzling to the eye. Its beautiful wearer gave me welcome with a radiant smile and a few cordial words, and drawing me by the hand to the low couch she had just vacated, made me sit down beside her. Heliobas had disappeared. "And so," said Zara--how soft and full of music was her voice!--"so you are one of Casimir's patients? I cannot help considering that you are fortunate in this, for I know my brother's power. If he says he will cure you, you may be sure he means it. And you are already better, are you not?" "Much better," I said, looking earnestly into the lovely star-like eyes that regarded me with such interest and friendliness. "Indeed, to-day I have felt so well, that I cannot realize ever having been ill." "I am very glad," said Zara, "I know you are a musician, and I think there can be no bitterer fate than for one belonging to your art to be incapacitated from performance of work by some physical obstacle. Poor grand old Beethoven! Can anything be more pitiful to think of than his deafness? Yet how splendidly he bore up against it! And Chopin, too--so delicate in health that he was too often morbid even in his music. Strength is needed to accomplish great things--the double strength of body and soul." "Are you, too, a musician?" I inquired. "No. I love music passionately, and I play a little on the organ in our private chapel; but I follow a different art altogether. I am a mere imitator of noble form--I am a sculptress." "You?" I said in some wonder, looking at the very small, beautifully formed white hand that lay passively on the edge of the couch beside me. "You make statues in marble like Michael Angelo?" "Like Angelo?" murmured Zara; and she lowered her brilliant eyes with a reverential gravity. "No one in these modern days can approach the immortal splendour of that great master. He must have known heroes and talked with gods to be able to hew out of the rocks such perfection of shape and attitude as his 'David.' Alas! my strength of brain and hand is mere child's play compared to what HAS been done in sculpture, and what WILL yet be done; still, I love the work for its own sake, and I am always trying to render a resemblance of--" Here she broke off abruptly, and a deep blush suffused her cheeks. Then, looking up suddenly, she took my hand impulsively, and pressed it.