In the pause which followed the Romany stood panting, his eyes fixed on
Ingolby with an evil exaltation which made him seem taller and bigger
than he was, but gave him, too, a look of debauchery like that on the
face of a satyr. Generations of unbridled emotion, of license of the
fields and the covert showed in his unguarded features.
"What did the single cry--the motif--express?" Ingolby asked coolly.
"I know there was catastrophe, the tumblings of avalanches, but the voice
that cried-the soul of a lover, was it?"
The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. "It was the soul of one that
betrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures."
Ingolby laughed carelessly. "It was a fine bit of work. Sarasate would
have been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard. Anyhow he couldn't
have played that. Is it Gipsy music?"
"It is the music of a 'Gipsy,' as you call it."
"Well, it's worth a year's work to hear," Ingolby replied admiringly, yet
acutely conscious of danger. "Are you a musician by trade?" he asked.
"I have no trade." The glowing eyes kept scanning the wall where the
weapons hung, and as though without purpose other than to get a pipe from
the rack on the wall, Ingolby moved to where he could be prepared for any
rush.
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