‘Now,’ whispered Carl, and touched the musician on the shoulder, and straight from the violin soared a voice, not soft and low, but clear and loud, and the air was ‘Cruel Barbara Allen.’ Carl fell back a step or two in his amazement. The white figure on the stage turned round, and for a moment peered into the darkness of the flies--then glided on again. The air once played, the composer cast his violin upon the stage beneath his feet and trampled it, hurled the bow from him, and with one cry, eloquent of agony and rage, turned and dashed past his companion, and, tumbling through the dark and unaccustomed ways, reached the street. Carl followed him and caught him up. ‘What is it, Stretton? What is the matter?’ he cried, and seized his friend by the arm. Christopher answered nothing, but hurried on like one distracted. ‘He’s mad,’ said Carl within himself--‘quite mad.’ They came together to their chambers, and Christopher sank into an arm-chair and moaned, unconscious of Carl’s presence, ‘Barbara! Barbara!’ ‘It is madness,’ said Carl, tossing his hands tempestuously towards the ceiling, ‘mere midsummer madness. Poor fellow! Stretton! Stretton! Listen to me! What is it? Don’t you know me?’ For Christopher glared at him like one who had no knowledge of him, and then again hid his face within his hands. ‘What on earth made you play that tune?’ cried Carl. ‘She was there, man! She was there!’ groaned Christopher, rising and pacing the room with unequal steps. ‘Who was there?’ said Carl, almost as wildly. ‘Barbara,’ groaned Christopher again, ‘Mademoiselle Hélène is Barbara Allen.’ ‘“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”’ murmured the theatrical Carl. ‘I must humour him. Never mind, old man. Suppose she is! what does it matter?’ ‘Oh, Carl! Carl!’ cried the other, turning upon him and gripping him by both shoulders. ‘I never loved another woman, and I never can. I would have built my hopes of Heaven upon her truth.’ Carl began to think there was something in it. ‘You mean that Mademoiselle Hélène is Miss Allen?’ ‘Yes, I said so.’ ‘And that you knew her?’ ‘We were sweethearts when we were children. We were engaged to be married two years ago. Would you believe it, Carl? would you believe it? I had a letter from her only this morning dated from the old place in the country. Think of the cunning perfidy of it!’ ‘How long can she have known Holt?’ asked Carl, rather to himself than Christopher. ‘Why, how can I tell?’ said the musician, groaning. ‘She has deceived me all along.’ There was no present consolation possible, and Carl had the sense to see it. He lit a pipe and watched his unhappy friend sympathetically. Christopher went up and down the room exclaiming here and there against the perfidy of woman. There came an imperious summons at the door. ‘Don’t let him in, whoever it is,’ said Christopher. Somebody kicked the door and roared ‘Rubach!’