Murph had never budged from his corner; he was quite insensible as yet
to the din that had once had such power to excite him. His head resting
on his outstretched paws, he lay asleep, stolid and stupid, callous to
all external things. Round his neck, buried in the dirty, matted fleece,
now long untouched by the curry-comb, were wound Jack’s arms; for Jack
never left his side.
Esmeralda made her exit, and then suddenly bombarding the audience with
a tornado of sound, the big drum rolled again, as if to announce some
special and extraordinary turn.
Murph knew this furious, frantic prelude well; this was always the way
Mazeppa’s headlong ride began. Yes, next moment, fifes, drums, bells,
tom-toms struck up together in a mad concert of all the instruments
combined, whereby the bandsmen strove to depict poor Mazeppa’s terrors
as his galloping steed bore him off to be the prey of all the fiends of
hell!