It was only when a slender, dark, elderly man stepped down to the
footlights with a violin in his long, thin hands that Archie sat bolt
upright, his eyes blazing with excitement, his breath catching in his
throat.
The great man's face was fine as an engraving, with a melancholy mouth,
and eyes that burned like black fires. He stood a brief second, gave his
head, crowned with long, grey hair, a quick, nervous toss, and drew his
bow across the strings softly, sweetly, with a heart-breaking sound that
fell on his listeners like the sob of a thousand winds. For five minutes
he held them spellbound. It was only when he half smiled and stepped
into the stage wings that they realized that it was over. Then with one
accord the entire audience broke into a storm of applause--all but
Archie, who sat with locked fingers and tense face; for the life of
him he could not move a single muscle--he was simply paralyzed with
pleasure; at last he had listened to _music_!
It was nearing the end of the programme, and Ventnor had stepped forth
to play his last number.
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