Then came Pantaloon, and Harlequin and Columbine. The old man was funny,
but the youth and the girl were exquisite--he, diamond-spangled and lean
as a lizard, she in tulle skirts and wreath of flowers. They did all the
old tricks of masks and slapping sticks, of pursuit and retreat, but
they did them so beautifully that Anne and Christopher sat
spellbound--what they were seeing was not two clever actors on a sawdust
stage, but love in its springtime--girl and boy--dreams, rapture,
radiance.

Then, in a moment, Columbine was dead, and Harlequin wept over
her--frost had killed the flower--love and life were at an end.

Christopher was drawing deep breaths. Anne was tense. But
now--Columbine was on her feet, and Harlequin was blowing kisses to the
audience!

"Let's get out of this," Christopher said, almost roughly, and led Anne
down the steps and into the almost deserted outer tent. They looked for
the snake-charmer, but he was gone. "Eating rice somewhere or saying his
prayers," Christopher surmised.

"How could he know about the gods?" Anne asked, as they drove home.

"They know a great deal--these old men of the East," Christopher told
her, and talked for the rest of the way about the strange people among
whom he had spent so many years.