“Go on, go on!” cried El-Râmi irritably. “What wild chant of the gods and men have you there? Is it your own?”
“Mine!” echoed Féraz—“No indeed! Why? Do you not like it?”
“Of course, of course I like it;”—said El-Râmi, sitting down again, angry with himself for his own emotion—“Is there more of it?”
“Yes, but I need not finish it,”—and Féraz made as though he would rise from the piano.
El-Râmi suddenly began to laugh.
“Go on, I tell you, Féraz”—he said carelessly—“There is a tempest of agitation in the words and in your music that leaves one hurried and breathless, but the sensation is not unpleasant,—especially when one is prepared, ... go on!—I want to hear the end of this ... this—defiance.”
Féraz looked at him to see if he were in earnest, and, perceiving he had settled down to give his whole attention to the rest of the ballad, he resumed his playing, and again the rush of the music filled the room.
“Faster, O faster! Darker and more dreary
Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—
Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,