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‘Just with the Sun her dainty feet doth move–‘

‘And this is Dancing–Orchestra Coeli–the Dancing of the Firmament.’

‘Wonderful!’ I cried.

‘You shall say so presently! So far you have only seen: now hear!’

He drew out a small brass pin from the foot of the mechanism, and at once it began to hum, on three or four notes such as children make with a comb and a scrap of paper.

The notes lifted and fell, and the little balls–each in his separate circle–wheeled and spun, twinkling in time with them, until my head, too, began to swim.

‘It will run for an hour now,’ my host assured me. ‘Indeed, with one to watch and draw up the weights at due intervals, it will run for ever.’

‘It dizzies me,’ said I.

‘Your head is light, belike, with the loss of blood. Sit you back in the chair, and I will try now what may be done with ointment and plaster.’

He forced me to seat myself and, fetching a small medicine-box from the press, began to operate. His fingers were extraordinarily quick and thin, and so delicate of touch that I felt no pain, or very little: but though I lay with my head far back and saw the machine no longer, it had set my brain spinning, and the pressure of his hands appeared to be urging it round and round, while his voice (for he talked without intermission) mingled and interwove itself with the drone of the music from the table. He was reciting verses; from his favourite poem, no doubt. But though the sound of them ran in my ears like a brook, I can remember one couplet only,–

‘And all in sundry measures do delight,
Yet altogether keep no measure right. . . .’

I dare say that, yielding to the giddiness, I swooned: and yet I can remember no interval. The circles seemed to have hold of me, to be drawing me down, and yet down; until, like a diver half-bursting for breath, I found strength, sprang upwards, and reached the surface with a cry.

The cry rang in my ears yet. But had it come, after all, from my own lips? I gripped the arms of the chair in a kind of terror, and leaned forward, staring at my host, who had fallen back a pace, and stood between me and the lamp.

‘Pardon me, sir,’ I found voice to say after a pause ‘I must have fallen into a doze, I think. My head–‘ I put a hand up to it and discovered that it was bandaged. He did not answer me, but appeared to be listening. ‘My head–‘ I repeated, and again stopped short– this time at sound of a cry.

It came from the night without: and at once I knew it to be a repetition of the sound that had aroused me. Nor was it, in fact, a cry, though it rose like a cry against the wind: rather, a confused uproar of voices, continuous, drawing nearer and nearer.

Then, as I stared at my host and he at me, the noise became articulate as drunken singing–‘Tow, row, row! Tow, row, row! . . . Crop-headed Puritans, tow, row, row. . . . Boot and saddle, and tow, row, row!–and, nearing so, broke into chorus,–

‘Waller and Hazelrigg, Stapleton, Scroop–
Way! Make way for His Majesty’s troop!
Crop-headed Puritans durstn’t deny
His Majesty’s gentlemen riding by,
With boot and saddle and tow-row-row!’

‘Good Lord!’ muttered my host, casting out his two hands in despair. ‘More soldiers!’

But by this time I had my hand on the door. ‘Guide me down the stairs,’ I commanded; ‘down to the door! And, before you open it, quench the light!’

By the time we reached the door the voices were close at hand, coming down the lane: and by each note of them I grew more clearly convinced. ‘Sir,’ I asked in a whisper, ‘does this lane lead off from the road on the near side of Alton?