Her whole being was merged in
movement. She was as an instrument in the hand of a skilled player.
Sir Eustace Studley was an excellent dancer too, though he did not
often trouble himself to dance as perfectly as he was dancing now. It
was not often that he had a partner worthy of his best, and it was a
semi-conscious habit of his never voluntarily to give better than he
received.
But this little gipsy-girl of Scott's discovery called forth all his
talent. She did not want to talk. She only wanted to dance, to spend
herself in a passion of dancing that was an ecstasy beyond all speech.
She was as sensitive as a harp-string to his touch; she was music, she
was poetry, she was charm. The witchery of her began to possess him. Her
instant response to his mood, her almost uncanny interpretation thereof,
became like a spell to his senses. From wonder he passed to delight, and
from delight to an almost feverish desire for more. He swayed her to his
will with a well-nigh savage exultation, and she gave herself up to it so
completely, so freely, so unerringly, that it was as if her very
individuality had melted in some subtle fashion and become part of his.
And to the man there came a moment of sheer intoxication, as though he
drank and drank of a sparkling, inspiriting wine that lured him, that
thrilled him, that enslaved him.
It was just when the sensation had reached its height that the music
suddenly quickened for the finish.
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