oceeded to open. The instrument was apparently of great age, small
and well shaped. The stranger took it up and began to tune it.

"Do you mean to say that you are yourself the violinist?" he asked, in
astonishment. But the stranger vouchsafed no answer, as he steadied
the fiddle with his bearded chin and turned the pegs with his left
hand, adjusting the strings.

Then, suddenly and without any preluding, he began to make music, and
from the first note Nino sat enthralled and fascinated, losing himself
in the wild sport of the tones. The old man's face became ashy white
as he played, and his white hair appeared to stand away from his head.
The long, thin fingers of his left hand chased each other in pairs
and singly along the delicate strings, while the bow glanced in
the lamplight as it dashed like lightning across the instrument, or
remained almost stationary, quivering in his magic hold as quickly as
the wings of the humming-bird strike the summer air. Sometimes he
seemed to be tearing the heart from the old violin; sometimes it
seemed to murmur soft things in his old ear, as though the imprisoned
spirit of the music were pleading to be free on the wings of sound:
sweet as love that is strong as death; feverish and murderous as
jealousy that is as cruel as the grave; sobbing great sobs of a
terrible death-song, and screaming in the outrageous frenzy of a
furious foe; wailing thin cries of misery, too exhausted for strong
grief; dancing again in horrid madness, as the devils dance over some
fresh sinner they have gotten themselves for torture; and then at
last, as the strings bent to the commanding bow, finding the triumph
of a glorious rest in great, broad chords, splendid in depth and royal
harmony, grand, enormous, and massive as the united choirs of heaven.

Nino was beside himself, leaning far over the table, straining eyes
and ears to understand the wonderful music that made him drunk
with its strength. As the tones ceased he sank back in his chair,
exhausted by the tremendous effort of his senses. Instantly the old
man recovered his former appearance. With his hand he smoothed his
thick white hair; the fresh colour came back to his cheeks; and
as he tenderly laid his violin on the table, he was again the
exquisitely-dressed and courtly gentleman who had spoken to Nino in
the street. The musician disappeared, and the man of the world
returned. He poured wine into the plain silver cups, and invited Nino
to dri