Then, suddenly and without any preluding, he began to make music, and from the first note Nino sat enthralled and fascinated, losing himself in the wild sport of the tones.  The old man’s face became ashy white as he played, and his white hair appeared to stand away from his head.  The long, thin fingers of his left hand chased each other in pairs and singly along the delicate strings, while the bow glanced in the lamplight as it dashed like lightning across the instrument, or remained almost stationary, quivering in his magic hold as quickly as the wings of the humming-bird strike the summer air.  Sometimes he seemed to be tearing the heart from the old violin; sometimes it seemed to murmur soft things in his old ear, as though the imprisoned spirit of the music were pleading to be free on the wings of sound:  sweet as love that is strong as death; feverish and murderous as jealousy that is as cruel as the grave; sobbing great sobs of a terrible death-song, and screaming in the outrageous frenzy of a furious foe; wailing thin cries of misery, too exhausted for strong grief; dancing again in horrid madness, as the devils dance over some fresh sinner they have gotten themselves for torture; and then at last, as the strings bent to the commanding bow, finding the triumph of a glorious rest in great, broad chords, splendid in depth and royal harmony, grand, enormous, and massive as the united choirs of heaven.

Nino was beside himself, leaning far over the table, straining eyes and ears to understand the wonderful music that made him drunk with its strength.  As the tones ceased he sank back in his chair, exhausted by the tremendous effort of his senses.  Instantly the old man recovered his former appearance.  With his hand he smoothed his thick white hair; the fresh colour came back to his cheeks; and as he tenderly laid his violin on the table, he was again the exquisitely-dressed and courtly gentleman who had spoken to Nino in the street.  The musician disappeared, and the man of the world returned.  He poured wine into the plain silver cups, and invited Nino to drink; but the boy pushed the goblet away, and his strange host drank alone.

“You asked me for the musician’s name,” he said, with a merry twinkle in his eye, from which every trace of artistic inspiration had faded; “can you guess it now?” Nino seemed tongue-tied still, but he made an effort.

“I have heard of Paganini,” he said, “but he died years ago.”

“Yes, he is dead, poor fellow!  I am not Paganini.”

“I am at a loss, then,” said Nino, dreamily, “I do not know the names of many violinists, but you must be so famous that I ought to know yours.”

“No; how should you?  I will tell you.  I am Benoni, the Jew.”  The tall man’s eyes twinkled more brightly than ever.  Nino stared at him, and saw that he was certainly of a pronounced Jewish type.  His brown eyes were long and oriental in shape, and his nose was unmistakably Semitic.