We found a table within the glow of the pavilion’s lights, but still so near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. A cadaverous, sandy-haired waiter brought things to eat, and we made brave efforts to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught. One of the women singers appeared suddenly in the doorway of the pavilion, then stole down the steps, and disappeared in the shadow of the trees beyond our table. The voices of the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment’s hushed silence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman’s voice, clear, strong, flexible, flooding the night with the bird-like trill of the mountain yodel. The sound rose and fell, and swelled and soared. A silence. Then, in a great burst of melody the chorus of voices within the pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again the wonder of the woman’s voice flooded the stillness, ending in a note higher, clearer, sweeter than any that had gone before. Then the little Tyrolese, her moment of glory ended, sped into the light of the noisy pavilion again. When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. “I shall have that to remember, when you are gone.” Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. “Take these things away. And you need not return.” He placed something in the man’s palm—something that caused a sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequious bows. Von Gerhard’s face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of the lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt of the waiter’s apron vanished around the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes which made me catch my breath with apprehension. “What is it?” I cried. “Norah? Max? The children?” He shook his head. “They are well, so far as I know. I—perhaps first I should tell you—although this is not the thing which I have to say to you—” “Yes?” I urged him on, impatiently. I had never seen him like this. “I do not sail this week. I shall not be with Gluck in Vienna this year. I shall stay here.” “Here! Why? Surely—” “Because I shall be needed here, Dawn. Because I cannot leave you now. You will need—some one—a friend—” I stared at him with eyes that were wide with terror, waiting for I knew not what. “Need—some one—for—what?” I stammered. “Why should you—” In the kindly shadow of the trees Von Gerhard’s hands took my icy ones, and held them in a close clasp of encouragement. “Norah is coming to be with you—” “Norah! Why? Tell me at once! At once!” “Because Peter Orme has been sent home—cured,” said he. The lights of the pavilion fell away, and advanced, and swung about in a great sickening circle. I shut my eyes. The lights still swung before my eyes. Von Gerhard leaned toward me with a word of alarm. I clung to his hands with all my strength.