were kindled by the fire of the divine song. When Muzzio had finished, and still keeping fast the violin between his chin and his shoulder, dropped the hand that held the bow, 'What is that? What is that you have been playing to us?' cried Fabio. Valeria uttered not a word — but her whole being seemed echoing her husband's question. Muzzio laid the violin on the table — and slightly tossing back his hair, he said with a polite smile: 'That — that melody . . . that song I heard once in the island of Ceylon. That song is known there among the people as the song of happy, triumphant love.' 'Play it again,' Fabio was murmuring. 'No; it can't be played again,' answered Muzzio. 'Besides, it is now too late. Signora Valeria ought to be at rest; and it 's time for me too . . . I am weary.' During the whole day Muzzio had treated Valeria with respectful simplicity, as a friend of former days, but as he went out he clasped her hand very tightly, squeezing his fingers on her palm, and looking so intently into her face that though she did not raise her eyelids, she yet felt the look on her suddenly flaming cheeks. She said nothing to Muzzio, but jerked away her hand, and when he was gone, she gazed at the door through which he had passed out. She remembered how she had been a little afraid of him even in old days . . .
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