like the waves at the vessel's side; it filled the room with shadowy music; creeping out into the mist, it floated along deck, stopping men at their steady tramp, tramp, tramp—drawing them to the port holes, and in at the door. The girl's figure swayed imperceptibly, like a slender column of smoke on a windless day. Zack stood silent, bowing his gray bald head in unison with the old familiar song. His lips moved, but made no sound.
Their backs were to the door. They did not see man after man, woman after woman, slip in and sit upon the edges of their chairs. They did not see one glorious figure, standing erect in the center of the room, glittering in black and silver, with a scarlet rose in her hair—Signorina Aurora Certosa dressed for dinner, one jeweled hand upon her bosom, the other commanding silence from those behind her. Reifenstein had stopped midway the room, half starting forward, like a blond giant from his North German forest, listening. Doris Stanton did not see the groups of eyes that peered in at every port hole, nor the wall of faces massed at the door.
"Dar's whar my heart is turning ebber" the clear notes rose like a rocket and came back again in a shower of broken stars. Then something snapped. "Oh, I can't play it" The little Southern girl stopped short, laid down the
