It was this golden head and radiant
face, with implacably blue eyes, that set the blood pumping into Arpad's
brain. When he looked at her, he saw sunlight.
"Do you know, you absurd prince, that when you played the Czardas the
other night I seemed to see a vision of a Hungarian prairie, covered
with fighting centaurs and satyrs! I longed to be a _vivandiere_ among
all those fauns. You were there--in the music, I mean--and you were big
Pan--oh, so ugly and terrible!"
"Pan! That is a Polish title," he answered quite simply.
"Stupid! The great god Pan--don't you know your mythology? Haven't you
read Mrs. Browning? He was the god of nature, of the woods. Even now, I
believe you have ears with furry tips and hoofs like a faun."
He turned a sickly yellow.
"Anyhow, why did they put you in a cage? Were you a wild boy?"
"They thought so in Hungary."
"But why?"
He stared at her sorrowfully, and was about to empty his soul; but she
turned away with a shudder.
"I know, I know," she whispered; "your hands--they are like the hands
of--"
Arpad threw out his chest, and Lora heard with a curiosity that became
nervous a rhythmic wagging sound, like velvet bruised by some dull
implement.
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