He remained on the rear platform of his car as long as the white station, beginning to blister under a tropical sun, was in sight.  Then he sought his compartment.  His amazement and rage were great when he found the two window seats occupied by the negro and the mysterious creature.  Pobloff’s bag was tumbled in a corner, his overcoat, hat, and umbrella tossed to the other end of the room.  The big black man bared his teeth smilingly, the shrouded girl shrank back as if in fear.

“Well, I’ll be—!” began the composer.  Then he leaned over and pushed the button, the veins in his forehead like whipcords, his throat parched with wrath.  But to no avail—­the bell was broken.  Pobloff’s first impulse was to take the smiling Ethiopian by the neck and pitch him out.  There were several reasons why he did not:  the giant looked dangerous; he plainly carried a brace of pistols, and at least one dagger, the jewelled handle of which flashed over his glaring sash of many tints.  And then the lady—­Pobloff was very gallant, too gallant, his wife said.  The bell would not ring!  What was he to do?  He soon made up his mind, supple Slav that he was.  With a muttered apology he sank back and closed his eyes in polite despair.

His consternation was overwhelming when a voice addressed him in Russian, a contralto voice of some indefinable timbre, the voice of a female, yet not without epicene intonations.  His eyes immediately opened.  From her gauze veiling the young woman spoke:—­

“We are sorry to derange you.  The guard made a mistake.  Pardon!” The tone was slightly condescending, as if the goddess behind the cloud had deigned to notice a mere mortal.  Her attendant was smiling, and to Pobloff his grin resembled a newly sliced watermelon.  But her voice filled him with ecstasy.  His ear, as sensitive as the eye of a Claude Monet, noted every infinitesimal variation in tone-colour, and each shade was a symbol for the fantastic imagination of this poetic composer.  The girlish voice affected him strangely.  It pierced his soul like a poniard.  It made his spine chilly.  It evoked visions of white women languorously moving in processional attitudes beneath the chaste rays of an implacable moon.  The voice modulated into crisp morning inflections:—­

“You are going far, Excellency?” She knew him!  And the slave who grinned and grinned and never spoke—­what was he?  She seemed to follow Pobloff’s thought.

“Hamet is dumb.  His tongue was cut at the same time he lost his nose.  It all happened at the siege of Yerkutz.”

Pobloff at last found words.

“Poor fellow!” he said sympathetically, and then forgot all about the mutilated one.  “You are welcome to this compartment,” he assured her in his oiliest manner.  “What surprises me is that I did not see your Serene Highness when we left Balak.”  She started at the title that he bestowed upon her, and he inwardly chuckled.  Clever dog, Pobloff, clever dog!  Her eyes were brilliant despite obstructing veils.