He languidly followed the clue, and soon he was at the gate
of a villa, almost buried in the bosk, and listening with all his
critical attention to a thrilling performance--yes, thrilling was the
word--of Chopin's music. What! The last movement of the B flat minor
sonata, the funeral march sonata, but no more like the interpretation he
had heard from others--from himself--than--than....
But, good heavens! _Who_ was playing! The unison passages that mount and
recede were iridescent columns of mist painted by the moonlight and
swaying rhythmically in the breeze. Here was something rare. No longer
conscious of the technical side of the playing, so spiritualized was it,
so crystalline the touch, Davos forgot his manners and slipped through
the gateway, through the dark garden, toward an open window in which
burned a solitary candle. The mystery of this window and the quicksilver
dartings of the music--gods, what a touch, what gossamer delicacy!--set
his heart throbbing. He forgot his sick nerves. When the trumpet blows,
the war-horse lusts for action--and this was not a trumpet, but a horn
of elf-land.
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