By an effort of the will they send through the nerves
a flood of feeling which is half-anaesthetic, half-intoxicant. Carried
into its fullest expression it drives a man amok or makes of him a
howling dervish, a fanatic, or a Shakir. In lesser intensity it produces
the musician of the purely sensuous order, or the dancer that performs
prodigies of abandoned grace. Suddenly the sensuous exaltation had come
upon Jethro Fawe. It was as though he had discharged into his system from
some cells of his brain a flood which coursed like a stream of soft fire.
In the pleasurable pain of such a mood he drew his bow across the strings
with a sweeping stroke, and then, for an instant, he ran hither and
thither on the strings testing the quality and finding the range and
capacity of the instrument. It was a scamper of hieroglyphics which could
only mean anything to a musician.
"Well, what do you think of him?" Ingolby asked as the Romany lowered the
bow. "Paganini--Joachim--Sarasate--any one, it is good enough," was the
half-abstracted reply.
"It is good enough for you--almost, eh?"
Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot into
the Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganini
or Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
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