“‘The Soldier’s Bride,’” cried a voice, and Kalman began to sing.  He had a beautiful face with regular clean-cut features, and the fair hair and blue grey eyes often seen in South Eastern Russia.  As he sang, his face reflected the passing shades of feeling in his heart as a windless lake the cloud and sunlight of a summer sky.  The song was a kind of Hungarian “Young Lochinvar.”  The soldier lover, young and handsome, is away in the wars; the beautiful maiden, forced into a hateful union with a wealthy land owner, old and ugly, stands before the priest at the altar.  But hark! ere the fateful vows are spoken there is a clatter of galloping hoofs, a manly form rushes in, hurls the groom insensible to the ground, snatches away the bride and before any can interfere, is off on a coal-black steed, his bride before him.  Let him follow who dares!

The boy had a voice of remarkable range and clearness, and he rendered the song with a verve and dramatic force remarkable in one of his age.  The song was received with wild cheers and loud demands for more.  The boy was about to refuse, when through the crowding faces, all aglow with enthusiastic delight, he saw the scowling face of Rosenblatt.  A fierce rage seized him.  He hesitated no longer.

“Yes, another song,” he cried, and springing to the side of the musicians he hummed the air, and then took his place again upon the beer keg.

Before the musicians had finished the introductory bars, Irma came to his side and entreated, “Oh, Kalman, not that one!  Not that one!”

But it was as though he did not hear her.  His face was set and white, his blue eyes glowed black.  He stood with lips parted, waiting for the cue to begin.  His audience, to most of whom the song was known, caught by a mysterious telepathy the tense emotion of the boy, and stood silent and eager, all smiles gone from their faces.  The song was in the Ruthenian tongue, but was the heart cry of a Russian exile, a cry for freedom for his native land, for death to the tyrant, for vengeance on the traitor.  Nowhere in all the Czar’s dominions dared any man sing that song.

As the boy’s strong, clear voice rang out in the last cry for vengeance, there thrilled in his tones an intensity of passion that gripped hard the hearts of those who had known all their lives long the bitterness of tyranny unspeakable.  In the last word the lad’s voice broke in a sob.  Most of that company knew the boy’s story, and knew that he was singing out his heart’s deepest passion.

When the song was finished, there was silence for a few brief moments; then a man, a Russian, caught the boy in his arms, lifted him on his shoulder and carried him round the room, the rest of the men madly cheering.  All but one.  Trembling with inarticulate rage, Rosenblatt strode to the musicians.

“Listen!” he hissed with an oath.  “Do I pay you for this?  No more of this folly!  Play up a czardas, and at once!”