The passions and wild love and irresponsible deeds of the
life he had lived in years gone by were here.
It was impossible for Ingolby to resist the spell of the music. Such
abandonment he had never seen in any musician, such riot of musical
meaning he had never heard. He was conscious of the savagery and the
bestial soul of vengeance which spoke through the music, and drowned the
joy and radiance and almost ghostly and grotesque frivolity of the
earlier passages; but it had no personal meaning to him, though at times
it seemed when the Romany came near and bent over him with the ecstatic
attack of the music, as though there was a look in the black eyes like
that of a man who kills. It had, of course, nothing to do with him; it
was the abandonment of a highly emotional nature, he thought.
It was only after he had been playing, practically without ceasing, for
three-quarters of an hour, that there came to Ingolby the true
interpretation of the Romany mutterings through the man's white,
wolf-like teeth. He did not shrink, however, but kept his head and
watched.
Once, as the musician flung his body round in a sweep of passion, Ingolby
saw the black eyes flash to the weapons on the wall with a malign look
which did not belong to the music alone, and he took a swift estimate of
the situation.
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