impatient word. The doorway held a bowing figure—Count Stysalski, his flute-case in his hand. He hoped that he was not intruding; he feared that it was somewhat late for a call; such a peaceful scene of enjoyment, he did not wish to disturb it. But since that pleasant afternoon upon the hill he had dreamed of another hour spent in delightful conversation and music.
He may have mistaken his unenthusiastic reception for the attentive silence of an appreciative audience. He made most of the delightful conversation himself and soon took out his flute. He bowed graciously, much as though he were giving a recital, and began to play. Once more magic was wrought. The listeners, spell-bound despite themselves, leaned forward, rapt. They covered their eyes and abandoned themselves to the eerie ecstasy of the music. They forgot their dislike of the man; they were silent in respect, not in scorn.
Afterward the Count persuaded Jim to take him up to the Light—he had such a desire to see that magnificent mechanism in work—and Jim, half dazed, led the way to the tower. He went up the stairs to elfin music, and it was not until the Count stood peering about in the lantern that Jim shook himself free of enchantment
