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Updated: May 27, 2025
It was growing late and the fête was in full swing when Saltash sauntered down again under the cypress-trees to the water's edge. The sea was breaking with a murmurous splashing; it was a night for dreams. In the flower-decked bandstand an orchestra of stringed instruments was playing very softly fairy-music that seemed to fill the world with magic to the brim.
The toys lay in their places looking so incredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my ready cash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the tawdry fascinations of a village booth. It was weird fairy-music, but quite delightful. The nearest approach to it that I know of above ground is to hear a wild dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte accompaniment.
It need scarcely be said that the grunt of the Indian was very emphatic when the sounds died away like fairy-music, and that the hunter's white guests entreated for more. Trueheart and her daughter were quite willing, and, for a considerable time, kept their audience enthralled.
She came and looked into my eyes, while I played. It was fairy-music, witching and sweet a little sad the fairies of the Danube. My heart danced with them in the fatherland. Her eyes looked into mine. Sombre eyes strange eyes. What did they say? She leaned forward on the piano, gazing at me passionately. My soul leaped back and stood at bay. The strange eyes smiled.
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