Spellbound groups of uninvited persons, most of them colored, rested their forearms upon the upper rail of the Parchers’ picket fence, offering to William’s view a silhouette like that of a crowd at a fire.  Beyond the fence, bright forms went skimming, shimmering, wavering over a white platform, while high overhead the young moon sprayed a thinner light down through the maple leaves, to where processions of rosy globes hung floating in the blue night.  The mild breeze trembled to the silver patterings of a harp, to the sweet, barbaric chirping of plucked strings of violin and ’cello—­and swooned among the maple leaves to the rhythmic crooning of a flute.  And, all the while, from the platform came the sounds of little cries in girlish voices, and the cadenced shuffling of young feet, where the witching dancemusic had its way, as ever and forever, with big and little slippers.

The heart of William had behaved tumultuously the summer long, whenever his eyes beheld those pickets of the Parchers’ fence, but now it outdid all its previous riotings.  He was forced to open his mouth and gasp for breath, so deep was his draught of that young wine, romance.  Yonder—­somewhere in the breath-taking radiance—­danced his Queen with all her Court about her.  Queen and Court, thought William, and nothing less exorbitant could have expressed his feeling.  For seventeen needs only some paper lanterns, a fiddle, and a pretty girl—­and Versailles is all there!

The moment was so rich that William crossed the street with a slower step.  His mood changed:  an exaltation had come upon him, though he was never for an instant unaware of the tragedy beneath all this worldly show and glamor.  It was the last night of the divine visit; to-morrow the town would lie desolate, a hollow shell in the dust, without her.  Miss Pratt would be gone—­gone utterly—­gone away on the train!  But to-night was just beginning, and to-night he would dance with her; he would dance and dance with her—­he would dance and dance like mad!  He and she, poetic and fated pair, would dance on and on!  They would be intoxicated by the lights—­the lights, the flowers, and the music.  Nay, the flowers might droop, the lights might go out, the music cease and dawn come—­she and he would dance recklessly on—­on—­on!

A sense of picturesqueness—­his own picturesqueness—­made him walk rather theatrically as he passed through the groups of humble onlookers outside the picket fence.  Many of these turned to stare at the belated guest, and William was unconscious of neither their low estate nor his own quality as a patrician man-about-town in almost perfectly fitting evening dress.  A faint, cold smile was allowed to appear upon his lips, and a fragment from a story he had read came momentarily to his mind....  “Through the gaping crowds the young Augustan noble was borne down from the Palatine, scornful in his jeweled litter....”

An admiring murmur reached William’s ear.