In a way he was
sorry for Yasmini; but it was the squadron and Colonel Kirby that
drew his heart-strings.
Swaying to and fro, from the waist upward, Yasmini began to play her
little instrument. The echoing vault became a solid sea of throbbing
noise, and as she played she increased her speed of movement, until
the German sat and gaped. He had seen her dance on many more than one
occasion. So had Ranjoor Singh. Never had either of them, or any
living man, seen Yasmini dance as she did that night.
She was a storm. Her instrument was but an added touch of artistry
to heighten the suggestion. Prom a slow, rhythmic swing she went by
gusts and fits and starts to the wildest, utterly abandoned fury of a
hurricane, sweeping a wide circle with her gauzy dress; and at the
height of each elemental climax, in mid-whirl of some new amazing
figure, she would set her instrument to screaming, until the German
shouted "Bravo!" and Ranjoor Singh nodded grave approval.
"_Kreuz blitzen!_" swore the German suddenly, leaping to his
feet and staggering.
And Yasmini pounced on him. Ranjoor Singh could not see what had
happened, but he sprang to his feet and ran toward them. But before
he could reach them Yasmini had snatched the German's pistol and
tossed it to him, standing back from the writhing German, panting,
with blazing eyes, and looking too lovely to be human.
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