Ingolby had purposely given the
warning about the fiddle, in the belief that it might break the unwelcome
intensity of the scene. He detested melodrama, and the scene came
precious near to it. Men had been killed before his eyes more than once,
but there had been no rodomontade even when there had been a woman in the
case.
This Romany lover, however, seemed anxious to make a Sicilian drama out
of his preposterous claim, and it sickened him. Who was the fellow that
he should appear in the guise of a rival to himself! It was humiliating
and offensive. Ingolby had his own kind of pride and vanity, and they
were both hurt now. He would have been less irritable if this rival had
been as good a man as himself or better. He was so much a gamester that
he would have said, "Let the best man win," and have taken his chances.
His involuntary strategy triumphed for the moment. The Romany looked at
the fiddle for an instant with murderous eyes, but the cool, quiet voice
of Ingolby again speaking sprayed his hot virulence.
"You can make a good musician quite often, but a good fiddle is a
prize-packet from the skies," Ingolby said. "When you get a good musician
and a good fiddle together it's a day for a salute of a hundred guns."
Half-dazed with unregulated emotion, Jethro acted with indecision for a
moment, and the fiddle was safe.
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