When Diotti left New York so precipitately he took passage on a coast line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased a small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and unattended, save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son, who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a 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.
