themselves.

"Hollo, Signor Excellency! and how does your partner please you? Come
and join our feast, loiterers; one dances more merrily after wine."

Down goes the round sun; up comes the autumn moon. Tara, tara, rarara,
rarara, tarara-ra! Dancing again; is it a dance, or some movement gayer,
noisier, wilder still? How they glance and gleam through the night
shadows, those flitting forms! What confusion!--what order! Ha, that is
the Tarantula dance; Maestro Paolo foots it bravely! Diavolo, what
fury! the Tarantula has stung them all. Dance or die; it is fury,--the
Corybantes, the Maenads, the--Ho, ho! more wine! the Sabbat of the
Witches at Benevento is a joke to this! From cloud to cloud wanders the
moon,--now shining, now lost. Dimness while the maiden blushes; light
when the maiden smiles.

"Fillide, thou art an enchantress!"

"Buona notte, Excellency; you will see me again!"

"Ah, young man," said an old, decrepit, hollow-eyed octogenarian,
leaning on his staff, "make the best of your youth. I, too, once had
a Fillide! I was handsomer than you then! Alas! if we could be always
young!"

"Always young!" Glyndon started, as he turned his gaze from the fresh,
fair, rosy face of the girl, and saw the eyes dropping rheum, the yellow
wrinkled skin, the tottering frame of the old man.

"Ha, ha!" said the decrepit creature, hobbling near to him, and with a