He was not intoxicated nor seemingly crazy, only intensely eager. His eyes were not wild, but pathetically pleading as they met hers.
"Nothin', Bill," she replied gently. "It's just as you left it. I keep it in the cupboard, and Blind Benner dusts it often."
His fast walk, which had been a sort of run over the frozen road, had worn Bill out, and he almost swooned with joy when he heard the good news. As he gasped for breath his body swayed, and he would have fallen had she not supported him with her free hand—he still clung to the other—and helped him to a chair. While she stood beside him he kissed her hand frequently as he silently wept. She did not take it away nor forbid him to caress it. Understanding his emotion, she allowed it to express itself in the way it chose.
Presently he became less demonstrative and said:
"Now please give me the fiddle, Lizzī."
She opened the cupboard, and handed him the box. He was so nervous that he could not fit the key in the lock, and Lizzī did it for him. When the lock sprung open he eagerly raised the lid, and there lay, bright and unharmed, the violin that he loved as his life.
"The red devil wore that lying mask and forced me to come. He knew chills-and-fever had about lost their terrors for me, so instead of trying to force me that way, he threw me into an agony of suspense that drove me here. Very well, King of Liars, your dance this time will be short. Bill Kellar's nerves are too shaky and his brain too tired to fiddle long for you to-night."
While he talked he tuned the violin. When it was in chord he began playing a slow improvisation that calmed and rested him, but must have made Satan angry, judging from the sarcastic smile that settled on the fiddler's face.
He had not played longer than ten minutes when Blind Benner entered, and sat down at Lizzī's feet.
Soon the spirit of the violin began to gain the mastery, and Bill's playing became more rapid, his execution more emphatic. Then Blind Benner knew that the demon of the music had woven its spell over his master.