Who and what were they? The musician no longer
smiled.
"You are a music-lover, monsieur?" he asked in a marked French _patois_.
"I love music, and I am extremely engaged by your remarkable combination
of instruments," answered Ferval. Baki regarded his wretched orchestra
on the grass, then spoke to his daughter.
"Debora," he said in English, and his listener wondered if it were
Celtic or Scotch in its unusual intonations, "Debora, you must sing
something for the gentleman. He loves our art,"--there was indescribable
pathos in this phrase,--"so sing something from Purcell, Brahms, or
Richard Strauss."
These words were like the sting of hail; they seemed to drop from the
sky, so out of key were they with the speaker's ragged clothes and the
outlandish garb of his daughter. Purcell! Brahms! Strauss! What could
these three composers mean to such outcasts? Believing that he was the
victim of a mystification, Ferval waited, his pulses beating as if he
had been running too hard. The girl slowly moved her glorious eyes in
his direction; light as they were in hue, their heavy, dark lashes gave
them a fantastic expression--bright flame seen through the shadow of
smoke.
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