The Fifth String | Page 8

rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast, betook
himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run riot with
his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive song, then
conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither satisfied
him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever man had
heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no

nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work closed, he
wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, ``Not yet, not yet;
I have not found it.''
Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with
the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in
monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a further
thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an
uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to the
floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his arms he cried, in the
agony of despair: ``It is of no use! If the God of heaven will not aid me,
I ask the prince of darkness to come.''
A tall, rather spare, but well-made and handsome man appeared at the
door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with
the usages of good society.
``I beg pardon,'' said the musician, surprised and visibly nettled at the
intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: ``To whom am I
indebted for this unexpected visit?''
``Allow me,'' said the stranger taking a card from his case and handing
it to the musician, who read: ``Satan,'' and, in the lower left-hand corner
``Prince of Darkness.''
``I am the Prince,'' said the stranger, bowing low.
There was no hint of the pavement- made ruler in the information he
gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right at
the beginning. The musician assumed a position of open-mouthed
wonder, gazing steadily at the visitor.
``Satan?'' he whispered hoarsely.
``You need help and advice,'' said the visitor, his voice sounding like
that of a disciple of the healing art, and implying that he had thoroughly
diagnosed the case.
``No, no,'' cried the shuddering violinist; ``go away. I do not need you.''
``I regret I can not accept that statement as gospel truth,'' said Satan,
sarcastically, ``for if ever a man needed help, you are that man.''
``But not from you,'' replied Diotti.
``That statement is discredited also by your outburst of a few moments
ago when you called upon me.''
``I do not need you,'' reiterated the musician. ``I will have none of you!''
and he waved his arm toward the door, as if he desired the interview to

end.
``I came at your behest, actuated entirely by kindness of heart,'' said
Satan.
Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling
at Diotti's behavior, said reprovingly: ``If you will listen a moment, and
not be so rude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to
your benefit.''
``Get thee behind--''
``I know exactly what you were about to say. Have no fears on that
score. I have no demands to make and no impossible compacts to insist
upon.''
``I have heard of you before,'' know- ingly spoke the violinist nodding
his head sadly.
``No doubt you have,'' smilingly. ``My reputation, which has suffered
at the hands of irresponsible people, is not of the best, and places me at
times in awkward positions. But I am beginning to live it down.'' The
stranger looked contrition itself. ``To prove my sincerity I desire to
help you win her love,'' emphasizing her.
``How can you help me?''
``Very easily. You have been wasting time, energy and health in a wild
desire to play better. The trouble lies not with you.''
``Not with me?'' interrupted the violinist, now thoroughly interested.
``The trouble lies not with you,'' repeated the visitor, ``but with the
miserable violin you have been using and have just destroyed,'' and he
pointed to the shattered instrument.
Tears welled from the poor violinist's eyes as he gazed on the
fragments of his beloved violin, the pieces lying scattered about as the
result of his unfortunate anger.
``It was a Stradivarius,'' said Diotti, sadly.
``Had it been a Stradivarius, an Amati or a Guarnerius, or a host of
others rolled into one, you would not have found in it the melody to
win the heart of the woman you love. Get a better and more suitable
instrument.''
``Where is one?'' earnestly interrogated Diotti, vaguely realizing that
Satan knew.
``In my possession,'' Satan replied.
``She would hate me if she knew I had recourse to the powers of

darkness to gain her love,'' bitterly interposed Diotti.
Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary