stood Cordova in white and lace, with her eyes half shut and shaking
her outstretched hands as she always made them shake in the mad scene;
and the stage was just as it had been before the accident, except that
Schreiermeyer was standing near the singer in evening dress with a
perfectly new and shiny high hat on the back of his head, and his
mouth wide open.

The people were half hysterical from the past danger, and when they
saw, and realised, they did not wait for the end of the air, but sent
up such a shout of applause as had never been heard in the Opera
before and may not be heard there again.

Instinctively the Primadonna sang the last bars, though no one heard
her in the din, unless it was Schreiermeyer, who stood near her. When
she had finished at last he ran up to her and threw both his arms
round her in a paroxysm of gratitude, regardless of her powder and
chalk, which came off upon his coat and yellow beard in patches of
white as he kissed her on both cheeks, calling her by every endearing
name that occurred to his polyglot memory, from Sweetheart in English
to Little Cabbage in French, till Cordova laughed and pushed him away,
and made a tremendous courtesy to the audience.

Just then a man in a blue jacket and gilt buttons entered from the
left of the stage and whispered a few words into Schreiermeyer's ear.
The manager looked grave at once, nodded and came forward to the
prompter's box. The man had brought news of the accident, he said;
a quantity of dynamite which was to have been used in subterranean
blasting had exploded and had done great damage, no one yet knew how
great. It was probable that many persons had been killed.