Carpentaria bowed; the entire band bowed; Carpentaria bowed again. Lastly he indicated a flute-player with his baton, and the flute-player came forward and shared the glory of Carpentaria. Why a flute-player, no one could have guessed. Forty flutes could not have been heard in that terrific concourse of brass and drums. But Carpentaria was Carpentaria. “Did any of you hear the sound of a shot?” Carpentaria said in a low voice to his band. “Shot? No, sir. No, sir,” came from a dozen mouths. “Why, sir?” “Because a bullet has just grazed my ear. It was in the fourth bar from the end.” He put his hand to his ear and showed blood on his finger. “It’s nothing, nothing,” he quieted them. “I shall expect you to behave as though nothing had occurred, as soldiers in fact.” “Certainly, sir,” replied the intrepid band. Carpentaria gazed at one of the iron supports of the roof of the bandstand. In a line with his head the surface of the pillar had been damaged and dented. He disturbed two trombone-players in order to search the floor, and in a few seconds he had found a flattened bullet, which he put in his pocket. “Number two,” he said sharply, going to his desk and tapping it. Number two was the lullaby. No more striking contrast to the march could have been found. It was so delicate, so softly stealing, that you could scarcely hear it; and yet you could hear it--you could hear it everywhere. Carpentaria drew sweetness out of his band with the gestures of a conjurer drawing an interminable roll of coloured paper from his mouth, previously shown to be empty. It was the daintiest thing, swaying in the air like gossamer. It brought tears to the orbs of mothers, and made strong men close their eyes. Such was the versatility of Carpentaria. The applause amounted to a furore. “I give you my word of honour, ladies and gentlemen,” said Carpentaria, coming to the rail of the stand and stilling the cheers with a gesture, “at halfpast three this afternoon not a note of the little piece was composed.” His demeanour gave no sign of agitation. But at the close of the concert, no more bullets having arrived, he wiped his brow with relief. Most of the band did the same. He walked about on the river terrace for over an hour, calming his spirit, which had been through so many excitements, artistic and otherwise, during the afternoon and evening. And he meditated, now on the bullet, and now on Ilam. He could scarcely realize how nearly he had escaped quarrelling with Ilam in the balloon; their relations hitherto had been invariably amicable, at any rate on the surface; and he had done so much for Ilam; he had put a second fortune in Ilam’s pocket. The dazzling success of the day of inauguration was the success of Carpentaria’s ideas. And yet Ilam hated him. He felt that Ilam hated him. He almost shuddered as he remembered the moment when he had sat on the dizzy edge of the balloon-car, and Ilam had threatened him, and then laughed.