“Now!”
He lifted his bow high, and the atmosphere tightened like a string. It was like waiting for the striking of a flame, the first touch of lips, or the dead coming out of a grave. All the grace of youth was in the curve of his arm; the certainty of his knowledge in his thrilling finger-tips. He leaned his ear to the fiddle as to a secret bound to be told. His face held expression behind expression, like the endless perspective of images in a pool, but at the back of all was the passionate gravity of the artist at his task. Old as he was, the sense of power that was strong in the others was stronger far in him. All who had ever danced to his piping waited upon his nod; feet by the hundred ached for the loosed tune. Now, now, before all the gods he was a god, as well....
And then slowly, as the note still hung in the balance, his face chilled and changed. The fiddle was as full of music as it would hold, but just for the moment it would not give it up. All those months of silence it had been singing to itself, and now the racing torrent was choking its throat. Slowly his bow sank ... slowly ... and sank....
“Nay, it’s ganged.”
“What’s ganged, Father?”
“The music.”
“It’ll come back right enough,” Thomas said in a cheerful tone. “Let’s see if I can mind the tune.” He pursed his lips to whistle, thought a moment, and began. “Yon’s it.”
“Ay, yon’s it.” He bent to the fiddle again. “I’ve got it now.” The moment that was like a sharpened string drew to its length again and snapped like a string.... “Nay, I’ve not.”
“It’s like this, you’ll think on,” Agnes put in. She started to hum the air in a gay little voice, and Kit nodded his head and listened and said “Ay.” She beat out the time with her foot, and the fiddle went up and down. Then he lifted his bow and waited ... and listened again.... “Nay, it’s ganged.”
“We’ll give him a lead, missis!” Thomas cried, and began to whistle the music very loud. At once they flung themselves eagerly into the dance, lithe, earnest figures making their neat, light steps. As they danced he whistled and she sang, until the house was filled with the tune from floor to roof. The very flags of the kitchen seemed to sway to the air; it seemed impossible that the old man could not hear. Faster and faster they speeded it up, and, as they whirled, their eyes met once and again, and then they smiled. Every moment they looked for the fiddle to join in, putting fresh life and rhythm into their feet. And instead they heard the old man’s voice crying aloud, harsh with the harshness of great pain and fear. He struck the table soundingly with his open palm.