, all aglow with enthusiastic delight, he saw the scowling
face of Rosenblatt. A fierce rage seized him. He hesitated no longer.

"Yes, another song," he cried, and springing to the side of the
musicians he hummed the air, and then took his place again upon
the beer keg.

Before the musicians had finished the introductory bars, Irma came
to his side and entreated, "Oh, Kalman, not that one! Not that one!"

But it was as though he did not hear her. His face was set and
white, his blue eyes glowed black. He stood with lips parted,
waiting for the cue to begin. His audience, to most of whom the
song was known, caught by a mysterious telepathy the tense emotion
of the boy, and stood silent and eager, all smiles gone from their
faces. The song was in the Ruthenian tongue, but was the heart cry
of a Russian exile, a cry for freedom for his native land, for
death to the tyrant, for vengeance on the traitor. Nowhere in all
the Czar's dominions dared any man sing that song.

As the boy's strong, clear voice rang out in the last cry for
vengeance, there thrilled in his tones an intensity of passion that
gripped hard the hearts of those who had known all their lives long
the bitterness of tyranny unspeakable. In the last word the lad's
voice broke in a sob. Most of that company knew the boy's story,
and knew that he was singing out his heart's deepest passion.

When the song was finished, there was silence for a few brief
moments; then a man, a Russian, caught the boy in his arms, lifted
him on his shoulder and carried him round the room, the rest of the
men madly cheering. All but one. Trembling with inarticulate rage,
Rosenblatt strode to the musicians.

"Listen!" he hissed with an oath. "Do I pay you for this? No more
of this folly! Play up a czardas, and at once!"

The musicians hastened to obey, and before the cheers had died,
the strains of the czardas filled the room. With the quick reaction
from the tragic to the gay, the company swung into this joyous and
exciting dance. Samuel Sprink, seizing Irma, whirled her off into
the crowd struggling and protesting, but all in vain. After the
dance there was a general rush for the beer keg, with much noise
and good-natured horse play. At the other end of the room, however,
there was a fierce struggle going on. Samuel Sprink, excited by the
dance and, it must be confessed, by an unusual devotion to the beer
keg that evening, was still retaining his hold of Irma, and was
mak