“A great kindness,” responded the stranger, “for I have heard of your skilful playing upon this wonderful instrument” (tapping Charley’s fiddle with his finger), “and I wish to know if you will come to play at a dance of mine to-morrow night.” The place and hour were named, and the Gypsy promised to be there.
“Open your hands, my man;” and into them the stranger emptied a pocketful of silver coins, and departed, smiling over his shoulder at the perplexed Gypsy. All that night Charley tossed restlessly on his bed of straw. “A fore-handed payment, and generous too. Who can that dark gentleman be?” In the morning the Gypsy betook himself to a neighbouring priest, who, on hearing his story, looked grave.
“You have made a bargain with the Devil.”
“Then tell me how I can get out of it.”
“You must keep your engagement, for, if you don’t, the Devil will fetch you.”
“But what am I to do when I get there?”
“If you do as I say, all will be well. When you are asked to strike up, you must be sure to play nothing but slow, solemn psalm tunes. Mind you do as I say.”
At the appointed hour the trembling fiddler stood on the moonlit sward within the walls of a ruined castle. Awaiting his arrival was the tall dark gentleman surrounded by his guests, an array of lords and ladies in silks and satins. When the signal was given for the fiddler to commence his music, Charley drew his bow over the strings, evoking none but psalm tunes, solemn and slow, as the priest had advised. After a few moments of this sort of music, the Devil marched up to the Gypsy, and, fixing his large black eyes upon him, said—
“Give us something more lively at once.”
“I cannot,” said the Gypsy.