He hesitated no longer.
"Yes, another song," he cried, and springing to the side of the musicians he hummed the air, and then took his place again upon the beer keg.
Before the musicians had finished the introductory bars, Irma came to his side and entreated, "Oh, Kalman, not that one! Not that one!" But it was as though he did not hear her.

His face was set and white, his blue eyes glowed black.

He stood with lips parted, waiting for the cue to begin.

His audience, to most of whom the song was known, caught by a mysterious telepathy the tense emotion of the boy, and stood silent and eager, all smiles gone from their faces.

The song was in the Ruthenian tongue, but was the heart cry of a Russian exile, a cry for freedom for his native land, for death to the tyrant, for vengeance on the traitor.