Jan picked his way through the cordon of dogs and the inner circle of
men until he stood with the firelight flashing in his glossy hair and
black eyes, and there, seated upon the edge of one of the bread-boxes,
he began to play.
It was not the low, sweet music of Cummins and the little Melisse that
he played now, but a wild, wailing song that he had found in the
autumn winds. It burst above the crackling fire and the tumult of man
and dog in a weird and savage beauty that hushed all sound; and life
about him became like life struck suddenly dead. With his head bowed
Jan saw nothing--saw nothing of the wonder in the faces of the half-
cringing little black men who were squatted in a group a dozen feet
away, nothing of the staring amazement in the eyes that were looking
upon this miracle he was performing. He knew only that about him there
was a deep hush, and after a while his violin sang a lower song, and
sweeter; and still softer it became, and more sweet, until he was
playing that which he loved most of all--the music that had filled the
little cabin when Cummins' wife died.
As he continued to play there came an interruption to the silence--a
low refrain that was almost like that of the moaning wind. It grew
beyond the tense circle of men, until a song of infinite sadness rose
from the throats of a hundred dogs in response to Jan Thoreau's
violin.
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