"See," she went on, "see the faun!"
A slender boy appeared in the proscenium doorway. His hair clustered
about deep red cheeks, and his great dark eyes looked mournfully over
the house. I fancied he was seeking someone. The audience hailed him with
applause and he descended two or three steps to the street-piano, which
served as orchestra, and began to turn the crank. Deborah started, raised
eyebrows of dismay, and pressed her hands over her ears. Never before
had she heard the Intermezzo from Cavalleria rendered by a street-piano
in a twenty by forty foot room.
[Illustration: She wheeled about and stamped her foot. "Silence, pigs!"
she screamed.]
Beatrice, appearing at my side, evidently perceived the gesture. Her
face turned crimson and she drew herself up proudly.
"Gaiterno!" she called, "stop that noise."
The boy paused, and, still bent over at the lower curve of his stroke,
turned an astonished face toward us. The chatter from the seats hushed.
"Stop the music," repeated Beatrice, imperiously.
A grumble sounded in the rear and increased from seat to seat until it
was a growl. The corners of Beatrice's mouth curled up like those of an
angry cat. She wheeled about and stamped her foot.
"Silence, pigs!" she screamed.
The tumult fell away. For a moment the girl stood poised as if ready to
spring, and then turned, and, in the hush passed beyond us to a seat at
Deborah's farther side. My companion shrank slightly toward me and once
more laid a hand upon my arm. Her face was turned toward Beatrice, whose
color had died down and whose eyes were perfectly indifferent.
The raising of the curtain put an end to the strain. The audience,
forgetting their disappointment, bent excited faces toward the stage,
and so, after a few moments, did Deborah.
I fear I was an inattentive spectator. I dared not move lest I should
disturb that precious touch upon my arm, and the eager face before me
I found a sight more fascinating than the absurd gestures of puppets.
But presently, beyond Deborah's face appeared Beatrice's, and a certain
self-consciousness in its expression took my notice. The girl's lips
were pressed together and her eyes were directed sternly toward the
stage, but it was evidently with an effort that she held them thus. A
glance about the theatre gave me the clew. The faun by the street-piano
was looking full at her, with such a face of adoration as I had read
of but never beheld. It was pathetic, but it was funny as well, and I
laughed. Glances of scorn from Deborah and Beatrice punished me, and
Deborah transferred the hand to her lap.
[Illustration: With such a face of adoration as I had read of.]
"Do you understand what is going on?" I whispered. "The scene is in the
court of the Soldan of Africa. That trembling creature is an envoy from
Carlo Magno, come to demand the Soldan's surrender. The play, you know,
is six months long. Each adventure takes up one night."
Here Deborah pointed a monitory finger toward the stage, and I shrugged
my shoulders in silence.
Indeed the drama had reached a crisis. The Soldan had committed the envoy
to a dungeon. While the prisoner grovelled upon the floor, in stalked
the Soldan with the haughty stride, achieved by marionettes only. In
his hand he bore a sword.
"The hour of thy choice is come," announced the infidel. "Renounce thy
faith. Acknowledge the true God and Mahomet his prophet and thou goest
free. If thou refuse, this shall be thy last moment on earth."
Many visits to the theatre had prepared me for the sound of indrawn
breaths on every side. Deborah glanced curiously around her, but instantly
turned again to the scene. The Christian had struggled to his feet.
"Never!" he said in feeble tones. "I can die, but I cannot be false to
my faith."
The Pagan raised his sword.
"Dog of a Christian, die!" he roared, and cut the captive down.
"_Infame! infame!_" screamed the audience. Settees scraped, shoes pounded,
and men sprang to their feet. About us was a hurly-burly of brandished
fists, glaring eyes, snarling lips, flashing teeth. Apples, bananas,
split peas, and I thought a knife or two, hurtled toward the stage.
Deborah uttered a little scream and started up.
The curtain, falling swiftly, shut off the craven monarch from this just
indignation, and instantly the raging mob turned into an assemblage of
light-hearted citizens, laughing, chaffing, tossing up their heads to
drink beer out of bottles or oval tin pails.
Deborah understood, and a smile curved her lips, but her eyes were wide
and deep with recent fright.
"Isn't it amazing?" I ventured.
[Illustration: "_Infame! Infame!_" screamed the audience.]
"Yes!" she agreed, faintly. "It's—it's Elizabethan. I wish we Americans
could take our theatre as seriously. I don't wonder, though, that they
were excited. I was a little under the spell myself. I could easily
fancy that those dolls were alive."
"Look at Beatrice," I suggested.
The girl had not yet recovered her composure. Her hands were clinched
and her breath came deep and fast. Deborah eyed her sympathetically.
"It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah.
Beatrice turned upon her.
"It _is_-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-_rue_! 'E did kill-a
da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!"
"Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to
Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that
you are a naughty girl."