Nothing, indeed,--he had ceased, and was gravely bowing to the audience in response to the thunder of applause, that, like a sudden whirlwind, seemed to shake the building. But he had not quite finished his incantations,--the last part of the Concerto was yet to come,--and as soon as the hubbub of excitement had calmed down, he dashed into it with the delicious speed and joy of a lark soaring into the springtide air. And now on all sides what clear showers and sparkling coruscations of melody!--what a broad, blue sky above!--what a fair, green earth below!--how warm and odorous this radiating space, made resonant with the ring of sweet bird-harmonies!--wild thrills of ecstasy and lover-like tenderness--snatches of song caught up from the flower-filled meadows and set to float in echoing liberty through the azure dome of heaven!--and in all and above all, the light and heat and lustre of the unclouded sun!--Here there was no dreaming possible, . . nothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love! With an ambrosial rush of tune, like the lark descending, the dancing bow cast forth the final chord from the violin as though it were a diamond flung from the hand of a king, a flawless jewel of pure sound,--and the Minstrel monarch of Andalusia, serenely saluting the now wildly enthusiastic audience, left the platform. But he was not allowed to escape so soon,--again and again, and yet again, the enormous crowd summoned him before them, for the mere satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, poetic face, and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, as though anxious to convince themselves that he was indeed human, and not a supernatural being, as his marvellous genius seemed to indicate. When at last he had retired for a breathing-while, Heliobas turned to Alwyn with the question: "What do you think of him?"
"Think of him!" echoed Alwyn--"Why, what CAN one think,--what CAN one say of such an artist!--He is like a grand sunrise,--baffling all description and all criticism!"
Heliobas smiled,--there was a little touch of satire in his smile.
"Do you see that gentleman?" he said, in a low tone, pointing out by a gesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly in a stall not very far from where they themselves sat, --"He is the musical critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He has not stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate's performance,--and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly distasteful to him! He has merely written one line down in his note-book,--it is most probably to the effect that the 'Spanish fiddler met with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating public!'"