The fiddler was playing louder than before; the whole house shook—they were dancing again. To Olof the music seemed like a mighty peal of scornful laughter, as if the host of people there were laughing and dancing for joy at his shame.
"Make an end—make an end!" he cried to himself, and he rushed from the room. How he was to end it he did not know—only that this was unendurable—it was hell!
* * * * *
Smiling faces greeted Olof as he appeared in the doorway and stood a moment, unable to get through the press. His brain cleared a little—after all, he could not drive the guests from the house like a madman with a knife in his hand.
They stood aside to let him pass, and he slipped round by the wall to the farther end of the room, and went up to the fiddler.
"Will you sell it," he whispered—"sell your fiddle? There's a man wants to buy it—he's asked me. Never mind about the price—say what you like."
"Why … I don't know. 'Tis an old friend," answered the man, playing more softly as he spoke.
"Will you sell it? At your own price. Yes or no?"
"H'm … well, say thirty marks?"
"Good! The man'll be here directly. And now, play a polka—and play like the devil himself, as if you were kissing your girl for the last time. The fastest you've ever played."