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قراءة كتاب The Black Cross

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‏اللغة: English
The Black Cross

The Black Cross

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 1

"Ah, mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"

"Ah, mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"



THE BLACK CROSS


BY

OLIVE M. BRIGGS



Frontispiece by
SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI




NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
1909




Copyright, 1909, by
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK

Published, February, 1909




to
YAPHAH




CONTENTS


PART I PART II
CHAPTER I CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER II CHAPTER IX CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER III CHAPTER X CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER IV CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER V CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIX  
CHAPTER VII      




THE BLACK CROSS


PART I


CHAPTER I

It was night in St. Petersburg. The moon was high in the heavens, and the domes, crowned with a fresh diadem of snow, glittered with a dazzling whiteness. In the side streets the shadows were heavy, the façades of the great palaces casting strange and dark reflections upon the pavement; but the main thoroughfares were streaked as with silver, while along the quay all was bright and luminous as at noontide, the Neva asleep like a frozen Princess under a breast-plate of shimmering ice.

The wind was cold, the air frosty and gay with tinkling sleigh-bells. A constant stream of people in sledges and on foot filled the Morskaïa, hurrying in the one direction. The great Square of the Mariínski was alive with a moving, jostling throng, surging backwards and forwards before the steps of the Theatre like waves on a rock; a gay, well-dressed, chattering multitude, eager to present their tickets, or buy them as the case might be, and enter the gaping doors into the brilliantly lighted foyer beyond.

It was ballet night, but for the first time in the memory of the Theatre no ballet was to be given. Instead of the "Première Danseuse," the idol of Russian society, a new star had appeared, suddenly, miraculously almost, dropped from a Polish Province, and had played himself into the innermost heart of St. Petersburg.

The four strings of his Stradivarius, so fragile, so delicate and slim, were as four chains to bind the people to him; four living wires over which the sound of his fame sped from city to city, from province to province, until there was no musician in all the Russias who could play as Velasco, no instrument like his with the gift of tears and of laughter as well, all the range of human emotions hidden within its slender, resinous body.

So the people said as they

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