“Ungahree!” he said, and smiled and nodded again, and said again, “Ungahree!”

“He knows that word all right,” said Burns, smiling back.  “It’s a land of musicians.  The fiddle’s a good one, I’ll wager.”

He glanced at it as he spoke, and the boy leaped for it, pressing it to his breast.  He began to tune it.

“He thinks we want to be paid for his supper,” Ellen exclaimed.  “Can’t you make him understand we should like him to rest first?”

“I’d only convey to him the idea that we didn’t want to hear him play, which would be a pity, for we do.  If he’s the musician he looks, by those eyes and that mouth, we’ll be more than paid.  Go ahead, Hungary—­it’ll make you happier than anything we could do for you.”

Clearly it would.  Burns carried out the tray, and when he returned his guest was standing upon the hearth rug facing Ellen, his bow uplifted.  He waited till Burns had thrown himself down on the couch again in a sitting posture, both arms stretched along the back.  Then he made his graceful obeisance again, and drew the bow very slowly and softly over the first string.  And, at the very first note, the two who were watching him knew what was to come.  It was in every line of him, that promise.

It might have been his gratitude that he was voicing, so touching were the strains that followed that first note.  The air was unfamiliar, but it sounded like a folk song of his own country, and he put into it all the poignant, peculiar melody of such a song.  His tones were exquisite, with the sure touch of the trained violinist inspired and supported by the emotional understanding of the genuine musician.

When he had finished he stood looking downward for a moment, then as Burns said “Bravo!” he smiled as if he understood the word, and lifted his instrument again to his shoulder.  This time his bow descended upon the strings with a full note of triumph, and he burst into the brilliant performance of a great masterpiece, playing with a spirit and dash which seemed to transform him.  Often his lips parted to show his white teeth, often he swung his whole body into the rhythm of his music, until he seemed a very part of the splendid harmonies he made.  His thin cheeks flushed, his hollow eyes grew bright, he smiled, he frowned, he shook his slender shoulders, he even took a stride to right or left as he played on, as if the passion of his performance would not let him rest.

His listeners watched him with sympathetic and comprehending interest.  Warmed and fed, his Latin nature leaping up from its deep depression to the exaltation of the hour, the appeal he made to them was intensely pathetic.  Burns, even more ardently than his wife, responded to the appeal.  He no longer lounged among the pillows of the broad couch; he sat erect, his eyes intent, his lips relaxed, his cares forgot.  He was a lover of music, as are many men of his profession, and he was more than ordinarily susceptible to its influences.  He drank in the tones of the master, voiced by this devoted interpreter, like wine, and like wine they brought the colour to his face also, and the light to his eyes.