Olé con, olé ola, y olé, barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Not one word could his audience understand; they could, however, realise that a remarkably good-looking young man, playing a guitar, decorated with beautiful crimson and yellow ribbons, was singing a catching and delightful melody with extraordinary spirit and expression; so much so, they felt fired with an almost irrepressible desire to join in the inspiriting refrain—
“Olé con, olé ola, y olé barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Indeed, for many a day the boys in the neighbourhood might be heard whistling the air, or bursting suddenly into—
“Olé con, olé ola,”
for the Irish peasant is naturally musical, and has a true ear.
The audience, by the end of the third verse, were completely carried away. Something in the Toreador song stirred them. And if the general audience were thus touched, what of an impressionable girl? Something in the voice and the air seemed to call forth a sudden joy in the heart of Mary Foley—a joy, an ecstasy, that thrilled her. “Olé con, olé ola!” rang in her ears for months!
After the bull-fighter’s song burst a wild hurricane of applause. Mrs. Doran trembled for the poor old cracked ceiling. And then with “God Save the Queen” the concert came to an end. People began to talk, to criticise, to collect wraps, and to wonder, “what sort of refreshments would be forthcoming?”