Page:Walpole--portrait of man with red hair.djvu/106

 water on the boil, the glow of rich suffused colour sheltering everything with its beautiful cloak, the rich voices tossing into the air the jolly song, the sense of well-being and the tradition of the lasting old time and the spirit of England eternally fresh and sturdy and strong; all this sank into his very soul and seemed to give him some hint of the deliverance that was, very soon, to come to him.

Then the procession definitely formed. All the voices—men's, women's and children's alike—caught it up. One—two—three, one—two—three. The drum, the trumpet and the flute came to them through the air:

He was never to be sure whether or no he had intended to join in the dance. He was not aware of more than the colour, the lights, the rhythm of the tune when a man like a mountain caught him by the arm, shouting, "Now we're off, brother—now we're off," and he was carried along.

There had always been a superstition about the dance that to join in it, to be in it from the beginning to the end, meant the best of good luck, and to miss it was misfortune. There was, therefore, now a flinging from all sides of eager bodies into the