He poured wine into the plain silver cups, and invited Nino to drink; but the boy pushed the goblet away, and his strange host drank alone.
"You asked me for the musician's name," he said, with a merry twinkle in his eye, from which every trace of artistic inspiration had faded; "can you guess it now ?" Nino seemed tongue-tied still, but he made an effort.
"I have heard of Paganini," he said, "but he died years ago." "Yes, he is dead, poor fellow! I am not Paganini." "I am at a loss, then," said Nino, dreamily, "I do not know the names of many violinists, but you must be so famous that I ought to know yours." "No; how should you?
I will tell you.

I am Benoni, the Jew." The tall man's eyes twinkled more brightly than ever.

Nino stared at him, and saw that he was certainly of a pronounced Jewish type.

His brown eyes were long and oriental in shape, and his nose was unmistakably Semitic.
"I am sorry to seem so ignorant," said Nino, blushing, "but I do not know the name.

I perceive, however, that you are indeed a very great musician,--the greatest I ever heard." The compliment was perfectly sincere, and Benoni's face beamed with pleasure.