She stooped low with her golden head and kissed his hands one after the other, lightly, swiftly, pressing her lips to the scratches. He murmured again, tossing uneasily; and she fell backwards in the straw, gazing at him, with her arms locked over her breast and her heart throbbing madly.
"No—he is asleep!" she said, "He is fast asleep! Another hour, and then in the dusk I will wake him. He will play for the dancing—Velasco! The greatest violinist in all Russia—he will play for the peasants to dance!"
She gave a little sob, half smothered. "It was wicked," she said, "unpardonable! I didn't know then—how could I know? If I had known!—God, save him! Give him back his life and his art that he has given to me. Give it all back to him, and let me suffer alone the curse of the Cross—the curse of the—Cross! Make me strong to resist him! Ah, Velasco—!"
She was sobbing through her clenched teeth; staring at him, stretching out her arms to him.
—"Velasco!"
CHAPTER XI
The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by lamps, small and ill-smelling. The ceiling was blackened by the smoke from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes. At one end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the elbows.
The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short skirts. The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and still grimy with toil. The tones of the violin filled the room. "One, two—one, two—one, two, three—curtsey and turn—one, two, three."
The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half turned to the room. There was no music before him. He improvised as he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with notes of his own. His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his chair, holding the violin close to his cheek.