Isn't it a beauty, Jethro Fawe ?" The Romany took it, his eyes glistening with mingled feelings.

Hatred was in his soul, and it showed in the sidelong glance as Ingolby turned to place a chair where he could hear and see comfortably; yet he had the musician's love of the perfect instrument, and the woods and the streams and the sounds of night and the whisperings of trees and the ghosts that walked in lonely places and called across the glens--all were pouring into his brain memories which made his pulses move far quicker than the liquor he had drunk could do.
"What do you wish ?" he asked as he tuned the fiddle.
Ingolby laughed good-humouredly.

"Something Eastern; something you'd play for yourself if you were out by the Caspian Sea.

Something that has life in it." Jethro continued to tune the fiddle carefully and abstractedly.

His eyes were half-closed, giving them a sulky look, and his head was averted.