Seated before a Steinway grand pianoforte, an instrument that found its way to this far-away province through the caprice of some artistic potentate, Pobloff nervously preluded.  Notwithstanding the warning of the girl, he had allowed himself to be convoyed to the great Hall of Ebony, and there, quite alone, he sat waiting for some cue to begin.  None came.  He glanced curiously about him.  For all the signs of humanity he might as well have been on the heights of Kerb, out among its thorny groves, or in its immemorial forests.  He preluded as he gazed around.  He could see, by the dim light of two flambeaux set in gold sconces, column after column of blackness receding into inky depths of darkness.  A fringe of light encircled his instrument, and beside him was a gallery, so vast that it became a gulf of the infinite at a hundred paces.  Now, Pobloff was a brave man.  He believed that once upon a time he had peered into strange crevices of space; what novelty could existence hold for him after that shuddering experience?  Again he looked into the tenebrous recesses of the hall.  He saw nothing, heard nothing.

His fingers went their own way over the keyboard.  Finally, following some latent impulse, they began to shape the opening measures of Chopin’s Second Ballade, the one of the enigmatic tonalities, sometimes called The Lake of the Mermaids.  It began with the chanting, childish refrain, a Lithuanian fairy-tale of old, and as its naive, drowsy, lulling measures—­the voices of wicked, wooing sirens—­sang and sank in recurrent rhythms, Pobloff heard—­this time he was sure—­the regular reverberation of distant footsteps.  It was as if the monotonous beat of the music were duplicated in some sounding mirror, some mirror that magnified hideously, hideously mimicked the melody.  Yet these footfalls murmured as a sea-shell.  Every phrase stood out before the pianist, exquisitely clear; his brain had only once before harboured such an exalted mood.  There was the expectation of great things coming to pass; dim rumours of an apocalyptic future, when the glory that never was on sea or land should rend the veil of the visible and make clear all that obscures and darkens.  The transfiguration which informs the soul of one taken down in epileptic seizure possessed him.  Every cranny of his being was flooded with overmastering light—­and the faint sound of footsteps marking sinister time to his music, drew closer, closer.

Shaking off an insane desire to join his voice in the immortal choiring of the Cherubim, Pobloff dashed into the passionate storm-scream of the music, and like a pack of phantom bloodhounds the footsteps pressed him in the race.  He played as run men from starving wolves in Siberian wastes.  To stop would mean—­God! what would it mean?  These were no mortal steps that crowded upon his sonorous trail.  His fingers flew over the keys as he finished the scurrying tempests of tone.  Again the first swaying refrain, and Pobloff heard the invisible multitude of feet pause in the night, as if waiting the moment when the Ballade would cease.  He quivered; the surprises and terrors were telling upon his well-seasoned nerves.