The English melodies had scarcely closed with “Come, lasses and lads,” when across in Mayoralty a blind was drawn, and a window thrown open, and Taffy saw the warm room within, and the officers and ladies standing with glasses in their hands.  The Colonel was giving the one toast of the evening: 

“Ladies and gentlemen—­The Queen!”

The adjutant leaned out and lifted his hand for signal, and the band crashed out with the National Anthem.  Then there was silence for a minute.  The window remained open.  Taffy still caught glimpses of jewels and uniforms, and white necks bending, and men leaning back in their chairs, with their mess-jackets open, and the candle-light flashing on their shirt-fronts.  Below, in the dark street, the bandmaster trimmed the lamp by his music-stand.  In the rays of it he drew out a handkerchief and polished the keys of his cornet; then passed the cornet over to his left hand, took up his baton, and nodded.

What music was that, stealing, rippling, across the square?  The bandmaster knew nothing of the tale of Tannhauser, but was wishing that he had violins at his beck, instead of stupid flutes and reeds.  And Taffy had never heard so much as the name of Tannhauser.  Of the meaning of the music he knew nothing—­nothing beyond its wonder and terror.  But afterward he made a tale of it to himself.

In the tale it seemed that a vine shot up and climbed on the shadows of the warm night; and the shadows climbed with it and made a trellis for it right across the sky.  The vine thrust through the trellis faster and faster, dividing, throwing out little curls and tendrils; then leaves and millions of leaves, each leaf unfolding about a drop of dew, which trickled and fell and tinkled like a bird’s song.

The beauty and scent of the vine distressed him.  He wanted to cry out, for it was hiding the sky.  Then he heard the tramp of feet in the distance, and knew that they threatened the vine, and with that he wanted to save it.  But the feet came nearer and nearer, tramping terribly.

He could not bear it.  He ran to the stairs, stole down them, opened the front door cautiously, and slipped outside.  He was half-way across the square before it occurred to him that the band had ceased to play.  Then he wondered why he had come, but he did not go back.  He found Honoria standing a little apart from the crowd, with her hands clasped behind her, gazing up at the window of the banqueting-room.

She did not see him at once.

“Stand on the steps, here,” he whispered, “then you can see him.  That’s the Colonel—­the man at the end of the table, with the big, grey moustache.”

He touched her arm.  She sprang away and stamped her foot.

“Keep off with you!  Who told you?—­Oh! you bad boy!”

“Nobody.  I thought you hated boys who wait to be told.”

“And now you’ll get the whooping-cough, and goodness knows what will happen to you, and you needn’t think I’ll be sorry!”