Ormarr took out his violin. He was visibly nervous, and it took him some time to tune up.
Abel Grahl could not help remarking to himself that the boy seemed awkward—and perhaps he did not even know his notes. Anyhow, he refrained for the moment from further questioning.
At last Ormarr ran his bow across the strings, put down his bow and violin, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.
Grahl watched him, making no sign. He was rather surprised to find himself really interested, and waited impatiently for the boy to begin.
As Ormarr took up his instrument again, the old man asked:
“How old did you say you were?”
Ormarr hesitated. “Fifteen,” he said at length.
Grahl shook his head in despair. Then he checked himself.
“Well, well, we shall see. Go on now, if you are ready.”
Ormarr began to play, without watching the other’s face. He did not see how the man’s expression changed from mere resignation to intense feeling, that drove all the blood from his face. Now and again he frowned, and started slightly, but repressed himself, and left Ormarr to finish at his will.