“Jalomitza!” whispered the jealous lover once more, “art thou not ashamed to let thyself be stared at thus?”
Again she made no answer, but turned her back upon him.
“Jalomitza, I tell thee, yon shepherd is no other than Bucur, the enchanter!”
Just at that moment the shepherd, without leaving off his playing, nodded his head, and Jalomitza’s heart turned cold and her throat dry.
“What dost thou know about it?” she rejoined defiantly, yet her voice trembled a little.
“I know it, I can feel it! I feel it because I love thee—and because I love thee I see, too, that he has taken thy fancy, and that thou wilt fall a prey to him, as all the others have.”
“I! Never—I swear it!” cried Jalomitza, and turned deadly pale.
“Here is my flute; do thou play for us a while,” the shepherd now called out, handing his flute to Coman.
Without knowing what he did, Coman grasped the flute and began to play, and he played more beautifully than he had ever done in his life; but he presently perceived, to his horror, that he could not leave off. He improvised new Horas, such as he had never heard before—Brius, Kindias, he played them all, and could see, as he did so, that the stranger was always dancing with Jalomitza. Then he began to play a Doina, and the air was so passing sad that tears stood in all the women’s eyes, and Jalomitza implored him to stop. But he played on and on, looking round with terror in his glance, for the flute would not be silent. Evening closed in; the people, in twos and threes, began to turn homewards, and still Coman blew upon the flute, and Jalomitza stood beside him as though spell-bound. The strange shepherd had disappeared.