It was certainly a remarkable performance.  The shadows took the forms of rabbits, swans, foxes, elephants, fairies, sailors with wooden legs, old women who smoked pipes, ballet-girls who pirouetted, anglers who bobbed for fish, twirling harlequins, and the profiles of eminent statesmen—­all made with two hands and, at the most, the help of a tiny stick or piece of string.  They danced and capered, grew large and then small, with such profusion of odd turns and changes that the flageolet-player began to giggle as he wondered.  He remarked that the hands, whenever they were disentwined for a moment, appeared to be very small and plump.

In about ten minutes the display ceased, and the shadow of a woman’s head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one corner.

“Is that any better?” asked a woman’s voice, low but distinct.

The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes lower, across the graves and into the shadow beneath the window.  For the first time he was aware of a figure standing there, a little way out from the wall.  As well as he could see, it was a young boy.

“Much better, mother.  You can’t think how you’ve improved at it this week.”

“Any mistakes?”

“The harlequin and columbine seemed a little jerky.  But your hands were tired, I know.”

“Never mind that:  they mustn’t be tired and it’s got to be perfect.  We’ll try them again.”

She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang out towards the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and waving his flageolet wildly.

“Ah, no—­no, madame!” he cried.  “Wait one moment, the littlest, and I shall inspire you.”

“Whoever is that?” cried the woman’s voice at the window.

The youth below faced round on the intruder.  He was white in the face and had wanted to run, but mastered his voice and enquired gruffly—­

“Who the devil are you?”

“I?  I am an artist, and as such I salute madame and monsieur her son.  She is greater artist than I, but I shall help her.  They shall dance better this time, her harlequin and columbine.  Why?  Because they shall dance to my music—­the music that I shall make here, on this spot, under the stars. Tiens! I shall play as if possessed.  I feel that.  I bet you.  It is because I have found an artist—­an artist in Gantick.  O-my-good-lor!  It makes me expand!”

He had pulled off his greasy hat, and stood bowing and smiling, showing his white teeth and holding up his flageolet, that the woman might see and be convinced.

“That’s all very well,” said the boy; “but my mother doesn’t want it known that she practises at these shadows.”

“Ha?  It is perhaps forbidden by law?”