“I’m Orthodox.”
“Orthodox! And for how much?”
The whole tavern laughed.
“Brothers,” said the ruffian, “shall we stand the blasphemy of this Jew against Throne and Church any longer?...”
There was a rush at Sasha. But he jumped up, and lifting his fiddle in a rage, smashed it on the head of the first who came up to him.
So Sasha was arrested as a revolutionary, and once more he disappeared. This time every one thought he had gone for ever. It would have seemed proper to wear mourning for him. The tavern changed in atmosphere. In Sasha’s place came another musician, one of those who had sat and listened to him in the old days and learned of him. One night, however, when they were playing the old tunes and the violin was gently crooning the song Expectancy, a voice from somewhere cried out nervously:
“Brothers, Sasha!”
All turned, and there stood the twice-raised Sasha, bearded, gaunt, and pallid. The people flocked around him and cried to him and called on him to play. But the same nervous, frightened voice cried out again:—
“His arm!”
All grew silent. Sasha’s left arm hung broken and twisted and nerveless from his shoulder.