The woman looks again at the distant scene; then turns to another with a whispered word. At the movement heads are turned, figures that seemed indolent lose their sloth. Something is toward; the whispers are pregnant with meaning. Thamar alone, recumbent on her couch, gives no sign of life. One might suppose she slumbered, but for the cat-like swiftness with which, at a word from one of her attendants, she turns towards the window. Half raising herself, as a stalking leopard lifts shoulders and neck to watch its distant prey, she takes a wisp of gauze from her pillow and slowly waves it above her head. A stranger, errant among the lonely mountain sides, has espied the castle, and approaches. Even now he stands below the walls gazing at the fateful casement. Twice and again the seductive signal is repeated. Its purpose then appears to be achieved, for the scarf is dropped and Thamar, springing from the couch, turns to her expectant court. Orders are issued, but of these there scarce seems need, with such accustomed readiness do the Queen’s minions set about their tasks. Without ado the guards stationed at the doors prepare to sally forth, wrapping themselves in voluminous black cloaks. A subtle touch, those cloaks. They suggest the bleak, inhospitable wilderness without, emphasising the warmth and luxury of the brilliant scene within--an emphasis which is enhanced by the decorative value, considering the scene pictorially, of the black irregular masses which the shrouded high-capped figures present against the general riot of colour. When presently the stranger is led in, likewise cloaked and muffled, that contrast is again insisted upon. The stranger, it is instantly apparent, is travel-weary: one divines the curiosity and wonder with which he finds himself led into an atmosphere of ease and luxury which his tired senses, despite the bandage over his eyes, must gratefully apprehend. Meanwhile, the Queen has been preparing for the advent of her guest. As the escort departs to bring him in, the women busy themselves with Thamar’s person. Deftly and swiftly she is robed, and ere the door opens to admit the doomed stranger, she is ready and awaiting her prey. Wonderful mime that she is, I doubt whether Karsavina in any _rôle_ excels her impersonation of the feline Thamar. Her every movement, under its sinuous grace, has that suggestion of stealth which fascinates while it affrights. From the moment that the guileless stranger is brought before her--for there is that in her attitude, as she awaits his coming, which proclaims him not guest, but victim--till the fierce climax, she never relaxes the tension under which his apprehension of her close-pent, volcanic energy places the spectator. It is as though one watched a panther sporting with some innocent creature that mistakes the play for mere kittenish frolic: as beautiful, as horrid, and as certain in its [Illustration]