After chasing in circles of quicksilver, they
all met with a crash; and the whole tonal battery, reenforced by the
throbbing of Arpad Vihary's dulcimer, swept through the suite of rooms
from ceiling to sanded floor. It was no longer enchanting music, but
sheer madness of the blood; sensual and warlike, it gripped the
imagination as these tunes of old Egypt, filtered through savage
centuries, reached the ears. Lora trembled in the gale that blew across
the Puzta. She imagined a determined Hungarian prairie, over which
dashed disordered centaurs brandishing clubs, driving before them a band
of satyrs and leaping fauns. The hoofed men struggled. At their front
was a monster with a black goat-face and huge horns; he fought fiercely
the half-human horses. The sun, a thin scarf of light, was eclipsed by
earnest clouds; the curving thunder closed over the battle; the air was
flame-sprinkled and enlaced by music; and most melancholy were the eyes
of the defeated Pan--the melancholy eyes of Arpad Vihary....
Aunt Lucas was scandalized. "Do you know, Lora, that the impudent
dulcimer virtuoso"--she prided herself on her musical terms--"actually
stared you out of countenance during the entire Czardas?" And she could
have added that her niece had returned the glance unflinchingly.
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