g
out her arms to him.

--"Velasco!"

CHAPTER XI

The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by
lamps, small and ill-smelling. The ceiling was blackened by the smoke
from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes. At one
end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two
gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a
scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden
curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the
elbows.

The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced
moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short
skirts. The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots
until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the
chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and
still grimy with toil. The tones of the violin filled the room. "One,
two--one, two--one, two, three--curtsey and turn--one, two, three."

The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half
turned to the room. There was no music before him. He improvised as
he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with
notes of his own. His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his
chair, holding the violin close to his cheek.

"One, two--one, two--one, two, three."

The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the
whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke. In his hands he held a
tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz,
glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing. Occasionally
they whispered together.

"You play too well, Velasco! Hist--scratch with the bow!"

"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"

"Just a little, Velasco."

"Is that better? Tysyacha chertei, how it rasps one's ears!"

"Yes, but your technique, Velasco! No gypsey could play like that!
Leave out the double stops and the trills!"

"I forget, little one, I forget! The Stradivarius plays itself. Keep
the castanet rattling and then I will remember."

"Velasco, hist--st! There are strangers standing by the door; they
have just come in! Scratch a little more, just a little. Your tone is
so deep and so pure. When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and
the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still. My pulses
are leaping, dancing! One, two--one, two, three!"