He laughed to himself, almost unconsciously.
Then suddenly he leaned his cheek to the instrument and drew the bow across the strings with a savage softness.

The old cottonfield fiddle cried out with a thrilling, exquisite pain, but muffled, as a hand at the lips turns agony into a tender moan.

Some one--some spirit--in the fiddle was calling for its own.
Five minutes later-a five minutes in which people gathered at the door of the shop, and heads were thrust inside in ravished wonder--the palpitating Romany lowered the fiddle from his chin, and stood for a minute looking into space, as though he saw a vision.
He was roused by old Berry's voice.

"Das a fiddle I wouldn't sell for a t'ousand dollars.

If I could play like dat I wouldn't sell it for ten t'ousand.