you are!" murmured the gypsey.
"I should like it above all things! Would the Barin teach me himself?"

"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to
pass an examination. Your bowing, for instance, is bad! You should
hold your arm so, and your wrist like this."

"Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then
in another. "That is indeed difficult, Barin."

"Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you! I am very
particular about that with all my pupils. There--that is better."

The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully,
as if he were handling an egg with the shell broken. "Ah--so?" he
said, "Of course! And can you play with your wrist like that, Barin?"

Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's
arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the
tone! That comes from the method. You will learn it in time; the
secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!"

Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he
said wistfully. "Your scale, Barin! I never heard such a scale." He
gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low
whistle of astonishment.

"Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never
heard any one cough so. Is he consumptive?"

"No--no!" said the gypsey. "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the
wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing. He will recover.
Barin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?"

"Not at all. The arm must be--so!"

"Ah--so?"

"That is better."

The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of
Petrokoff. The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if
weighted. His face wore an anxious expression. "Dear me!" he
exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined. Does every violinist
hold his bow like that?"

Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his
coat. "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years--there
is no other way."

The gypsey sighed. "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!"
His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift
and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand,
and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he
trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like
the sighing