consisting of thousands of people, and which really did comprise some
hundreds. Never before had I had such a clear conception of the
elaborate human machinery necessary to the production of even a
comparatively simple lyric work like "Lohengrin." Richly clad pages
and maids of honor, all white and gold and rouge, mingled with
shirt-sleeved carpenters and scene-shifters in a hysterical rabble;
chorus-masters, footmen in livery, loungers in evening dress, girls in
picture hats, members of the orchestra with instruments under their
arms, and even children, added variety to the throng. And, round
about, gigantic "flats" of wood and painted canvas rose to the flies,
where their summits were lost in a maze of ropes and pulleys. Beams of
light, making visible great clouds of dust, shot forth from hidden
sources. Voices came down from the roof, and from far below ascended
the steady pulsation of a dynamo. I was bewildered.

Sir Cyril pushed ahead, without saying a word, without even
remonstrating when his minions omitted to make way for him. Right at
the back of the stage, and almost in the centre, the crowd was much
thicker. And at last, having penetrated it, we came upon a sight which
I am not likely to forget. Rosa, in all the splendor of the bridal
costume, had passed her arms under Alresca's armpits, and so raised
his head and shoulders against her breast. She was gazing into the
face of the spangled knight, and the tears were falling from her eyes
into his.

"My poor Alresca! My poor Alresca!" she kept murmuring.

Pressing on these two were a distinguished group consisting of the
King, the Herald, Ortrud, Telramund, and several more. And Ortrud was
cautiously feeling Alresca's limbs with her jewel-laden fingers. I saw