Al’mah was singing again, and Byng leaned forward eagerly.  There was a rustle in the audience, a movement to a listening position, then a tense waiting and attention.

As Jasmine composed herself she said in a low voice to Ian Stafford, whose well-proportioned character, personality, and refinement of culture were in such marked contrast to the personality of the other:  “They live hard lives in those new lands.  He has wasted much of himself.”

“Three millions at thirty-three means spending a deal of one thing to get another,” Ian answered a little grimly.

“Hush!  Oh, Ian, listen!” she added in a whisper.

Once more Al’mah rose to mastery over the audience.  The bold and generous orchestration, the exceptional chorus, the fine and brilliant tenor, had made a broad path for her last and supreme effort.  The audience had long since given up their critical sense, they were ready to be carried into captivity again, and the surrender was instant and complete.  Now, not an eye was turned away from the singer.  Even the Corinthian gallant at the end of the first row of stalls gave himself up to feasting on her and her success, and the characters in the opera were as electrified as the audience.

For a whole seven minutes this voice seemed to be the only thing in the world, transposing all thoughts, emotions, all elements of life into terms of melody.  Then, at last, with a crash of sweetness, the voice broke over them all in crystals of sound and floated away into a world of bright dreams.

An instant’s silence which followed was broken by a tempest of applause.  Again, again, and again it was renewed.  The subordinate singers were quickly disposed of before the curtain, then Al’mah received her memorable tribute.  How many times she came and went she never knew; but at last the curtain, rising, showed her well up the stage beside a table where two huge candles flared.  The storm of applause breaking forth once more, the grateful singer raised her arms and spread them out impulsively in gratitude and dramatic abandon.

As she did so, the loose, flowing sleeve of her robe caught the flame of a candle, and in an instant she was in a cloud of fire.  The wild applause turned suddenly to notes of terror as, with a sharp cry, she stumbled forward to the middle of the stage.

For one stark moment no one stirred, then suddenly a man with an opera-cloak on his arm was seen to spring across a space of many feet between a box on the level of the stage and the stage itself.  He crashed into the footlights, but recovered himself and ran forward.  In an instant he had enveloped the agonized figure of the singer and had crushed out the flames with swift, strong movements.

Then lifting the now unconscious artist in his great arms, he strode off with her behind the scenes.

“Well done, Byng!  Well done, Ruddy Byng!” cried a strong voice from the audience; and a cheer went up.