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dead！〃
〃Dead！ who is dead？ Is any one dead？〃
〃Ah！ don't talk so； you must know it well： my poor mistress；
she caught the fever from you； it is infectious enough to kill a
whole city。 San Gennaro protect me！ My poor mistress； she is
dead；buried； too； and I； your faithful Gionetta； woe is me！
Go； gototo bed again； dearest master；go！〃
The poor musician stood for one moment mute and unmoving； then a
slight shiver ran through his frame； he turned and glided back；
silent and spectre…like； as he had entered。 He came into the
room where he had been accustomed to compose；where his wife； in
her sweet patience； had so often sat by his side； and praised and
flattered when the world had but jeered and scorned。 In one
corner he found the laurel…wreath she had placed on his brows
that happy night of fame and triumph； and near it； half hid by
her mantilla； lay in its case the neglected instrument。
Viola was not long gone： she had found the physician； she
returned with him； and as they gained the threshold； they heard a
strain of music from within；a strain of piercing； heart…rending
anguish。 It was not like some senseless instrument； mechanical
in its obedience to a human hand；it was as some spirit calling；
in wail and agony from the forlorn shades； to the angels it
beheld afar beyond the Eternal Gulf。 They exchanged glances of
dismay。 They hurried into the house； they hastened into the
room。 Pisani turned； and his look； full of ghastly intelligence
and stern command； awed them back。 The black mantilla； the faded
laurel…leaf； lay there before him。 Viola's heart guessed all at
a single glance； she sprung to his knees； she clasped them；
〃Father； father； _I_ am left thee still！〃
The wail ceased；the note changed； with a confused association
half of the man； half of the artistthe anguish； still a melody；
was connected with sweeter sounds and thoughts。 The nightingale
had escaped the pursuit；soft； airy； bird…like； thrilled the
delicious notes a moment； and then died away。 The instrument
fell to the floor； and its chords snapped。 You heard that sound
through the silence。 The artist looked on his kneeling child；
and then on the broken chords。。。〃Bury me by her side；〃 he said；
in a very calm； low voice； 〃and THAT by mine。〃 And with these
words his whole frame became rigid； as if turned to stone。 The
last change passed over his face。 He fell to the ground； sudden
and heavy。 The chords THERE； too；the chords of the human
instrument were snapped asunder。 As he fell； his robe brushed
the laurel…wreath； and that fell also； near but not in reach of
the dead man's nerveless hand。
Broken instrument； broken heart； withered laurel…wreath！the
setting sun through the vine…clad lattice streamed on all！ So
smiles the eternal Nature on the wrecks of all that make life
glorious！ And not a sun that sets not somewhere on the silenced
music；on the faded laurel！
CHAPTER 1。X。
Che difesa miglior ch' usbergo e scudo；
E la santa innocenza al petto ignudo！
〃Ger。 Lib。；〃 c。 viii。 xli。
（Better defence than shield or breastplate is holy innocence
to the naked breast。）
And they buried the musician and his barbiton together； in the
same coffin。 That famous Steinerprimeval Titan of the great
Tyrolese raceoften hast thou sought to scale the heavens； and
therefore must thou； like the meaner children of men； descend to
the dismal Hades！ Harder fate for thee than thy mortal master。
For THY soul sleeps with thee in the coffin。 And the music that
belongs to HIS； separate from the instrument； ascends on high； to
be heard often by a daughter's pious ears when the heaven is
serene and the earth sad。 For there is a sense of hearing that
the vulgar know not。 And the voices of the dead breathe soft and
frequent to those who can unite the memory with the faith。
And now Viola is alone in the world；alone in the home where
loneliness had seemed from the cradle a thing that was not of
nature。 And at first the solitude and the stillness were
insupportable。 Have you； ye mourners； to whom these sibyl
leaves； weird with many a dark enigma； shall be borne； have you
not felt that when the death of some best…loved one has made the
hearth desolate；have you not felt as if the gloom of the
altered home was too heavy for thought to bear？you would leave
it； though a palace； even for a cabin。 And yet；sad to say；
when you obey the impulse； when you fly from the walls； when in
the strange place in which you seek your refuge nothing speaks to
you of the lost； have ye not felt again a yearning for that very
food to memory which was just before but bitterness and gall？ Is
it not almost impious and profane to abandon that dear hearth to
strangers？ And the desertion of the home where your parents
dwelt； and blessed you； upbraids your conscience as if you had
sold their tombs。
Beautiful was the Etruscan superstition that the ancestors become
the household gods。 Deaf is the heart to which the Lares call
from the desolate floors in vain。 At first Viola had； in her
intolerable anguish； gratefully welcomed the refuge which the
house and family of a kindly neighbour； much attached to her
father； and who was one of the orchestra that Pisani shall
perplex no more； had proffered to the orphan。 But the company of
the unfamiliar in our grief； the consolation of the stranger； how
it irritates the wound！ And then； to hear elsewhere the name of
father； mother； child；as if death came alone to you；to see
elsewhere the calm regularity of those lives united in love and
order； keeping account of happy hours； the unbroken timepiece of
home； as if nowhere else the wheels were arrested； the chain
shattered； the hands motionless； the chime still！ No； the grave
itself does not remind us of our loss like the company of those
who have no loss to mourn。 Go back to thy solitude； young
orphan；go back to thy home： the sorrow that meets thee on the
threshold can greet thee； even in its sadness； like the smile
upon the face of the dead。 And there； from thy casement； and
there； from without thy door； thou seest still the tree； solitary
as thyself； and springing from the clefts of the rock； but
forcing its way to light；as； through all sorrow； while the
seasons yet can renew the verdure and bloom of youth； strives the
instinct of the human heart！ Only when the sap is dried up； only
when age comes on； does the sun shine in vain for man and for the
tree。
Weeks and monthsmonths sad and manyagain passed； and Naples
will not longer suffer its idol to seclude itself from homage。
The world ever plucks us back from ourselves with a thousand
arms。 And again Viola's voice is heard upon the stage； which；
mystically faithful to life； is in nought more faithful than
this； that it is the appearances that fill the scene； and we
pause not to ask of what realities they are the proxies。 When
the actor of Athens moved all hearts as he c