Страница 699 из 788

He made a sign. The fiddler tucked up the sleeve of his coat,

squeezed tightly the finger board, rested his chin on the

tailpiece, and sent his bow over the fiddle like a race horse. At

this signal, the bagpipers, who were standing close by, blew into

their sacks and filled their cheeks with breath, making a quick

motion with their arms as though flapping their wings; you might

have thought that the pair would fly off on the breeze, like the

chubby children of Boreas. But there was no dulcimer.