harmonious sounds. Then he began a chant--song I can scarcely call
it--words certainly not in Italian, perhaps in some uncivilized tongue,
perhaps in impromptu gibberish. And the torture of the instrument now
commenced in good earnest: it shrieked, it groaned, wilder and noisier.
Beethoven's Storm, roused by the fell touch of a German pianist, were mild
in comparison; and the mighty voice, dominating the anguish of the
cracking keys, had the full diapason of a chorus. Certainly I am no judge
of music, but to my ear the discord was terrific,--to the ears of better
informed amateurs it seemed ravishing. All were spellbound; even Mrs.
Poyntz paused from her knitting, as the Fates paused from their web at the
lyre of Orpheus. To this breathless delight, however, soon succeeded a
general desire for movement. To my amazement, I beheld these formal
matrons and sober fathers of families forming themselves into a dance,
turbulent as a children's ball at Christmas; and when, suddenly desisting
from his music, Margrave started up, caught the skeleton hand of lean
Miss Brabazon, and whirled her into the centre of the dance, I could have
fancied myself at a witch's sabbat. My eye turned in scandalized alarm
towards Mrs. Poyntz. That great creature seemed as much astounded as
myself. Her eyes were fixed on the scene in a stare of positive stupor.
For the first time, no doubt, in her life, she was overcome, deposed,
dethroned. The awe of her presence was literally whirled away. The dance
ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Darting from the galvanized mummy
whom he had selected as his partner, Margrave shot to Mrs. Poyntz's side,
and said, "Ten thousand pardons for quitting you so soon, but the clock
warns me that I have an engagement elsewhere." In another moment he was
gone.

The dance halted, people seemed slowly returning to their senses,
looking at each other bashfully and ashamed.