All his erotic anger and
melodramatic fervour were alive in him once more.
He was again a man with a wrong, a lover dispossessed. On the instant
his veins filled with passionate blood. The Roscian strain in him had
its own tragic force and reality.
"My home is where my own is, and you, have taken my own from me, as I
said," he burst out. "There was all the world for you, but I had only my
music and my wife, and you have taken my wife from me. 'Mi Duvel', you
have taken, but you shall give back again, or there will be only one of
us in the world! The music I have played for you--that has told you all:
the thing that was music from the beginning of Time, the will of the
First of All. Fleda Druse, she was mine, she is my wife, and you, the
Gorgio, come between, and she will not return to me."
A sudden savage desire came to Ingolby to strike the man in the face--
this Gipsy vagabond the husband of Fleda Druse! It was too monstrous.
It was an evil lie, and yet she had said she was a Romany, and had said
it with apparent shame or anxiety. She had given him no promise, had
pledged no faith, had admitted no love, and yet already in his heart of
hearts he thought upon her as his own.
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