In her shower of bright hair a few green leaves and white blossoms clung, and they fell over her robe down to her feet.

Her white throat and arms were bare, she leaned forward a little and swayed with the melody, her eyes fast on the clouds above her, her lips parted, a pink tinge of exercise in her cheeks as she drew her bow.

She played as only a peculiar chain of circumstances puts it in the power of a very few to play.

All nature had grown still, the violin sobbed, sang, danced and quavered on alone, no voice in particular; the soul of the melody of all nature combined in one great outpouring.
At the doorway, a white-faced woman endured it as long as she could and then fell senseless.

The men nearest carried her down the hall to the fountain, revived her, and then placed her in the carriage to which she directed them.