She saw the firelight again, and the pitiful, little figure of her poor, little brother as he poured over the picture, pointing with his sensitive forefinger to Pan's shape.

She could hear his high, childish voice say: "See, Cherisette, he, too, is not made as other people are! Look, and he plays music, also.

When I am with _Maman_ and you walk there you must remember that this is me!" And Tristram, watching her, knew not what to think.

For her face had become more purely white than usual, and her dark eyes were swimming with tears.
God! how she must have loved this man! In wild rage he stalked beside her until they came quite close to the statue in the center of the star, surrounded by its pergola of pillars, which in the summer were gay with climbing roses.
Then he stepped forward, with a sharp exclamation of annoyance, for the pipes of Pan had been broken and lay there on the ground.
Who had done this thing?
When Zara saw the mutilation she gave a piteous cry; to her, to the mystic part of her strange nature, this was an omen.

Pan's music was gone, and Mirko, too, would play no more.
With a wail like a wounded animal's she slipped down on the stone bench, and, burying her face in her muff, the tension of soul of all these days broke down, and she wept bitter, anguishing tears.
Tristram was dumbfounded.