most secret thoughts--thoughts born of the mysterious,
muffled music; whilst the firelight rose and fell, and made everything
that was golden glimmer in the darkness.

And there constantly came more for the doctor. From time to time he
turned and signed to De Silvis, as he heard the loved notes of 'unser
Schumann,' 'unser Beethoven,' or even of 'unser famoser Richard.'

Meanwhile the stranger played on, steadily and without apparent effort,
slightly inclined to the left, so as to give power to the bass. It
sounded as if he had twenty fingers, all of steel; he knew how to unite
the multitudinous notes in a single powerful clang. Without any pause to
mark the transition from one melody to another, he riveted the interest
of the company by constant new surprises, graceful allusions, and genial
combinations, so that even the least musical among them were constrained
to listen with eager attention.

But the character of the music imperceptibly changed. The artist bent
constantly over the instrument, inclining more to the left, and there
was a strange unrest in the bass notes. The Baptists from 'The Prophet'
came with heavy step; a rider from 'Damnation de Faust' dashed up from
far below, in a desperate, hobbling hell-gallop.

The rumbling grew stronger and stronger down in the depths, and Monsieur
Anatole again began to feel the effects of the truffles. Mademoiselle
Adele half rose; the music would not let her lie in peace.

Here and there the firelight shone on a pair of black eyes staring at
the artist. He had lured them with him, and now they could not break
loose; downward, ever downward, he led them--downward, where was a dull
and muffled murmur as of threatenings and plaints.

'Er fuehrt eine famose linke Hand,' said the doctor. But De Silvis did
not hear him; he sat, like the others, in breathless expectancy.

A dark, sickening dread went out from the music and spread itself over
them all. The artist's left hand seemed to be tying a knot that would
never be loosened, while his right made light little runs, like flames,
up and down in the treble. It sounded as if there was something uncanny
brewing down in the cellar, whilst those above burnt torches and made
merry.

A sigh was heard, a half-scream from one of the ladies, who felt ill;
but no one heeded it. The artist had now got quite down into the bass,
and his tireless fingers whirled the notes together, so that a cold
shudder crept down the backs of all.