The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
twenty years of age. To call her exhibition 
dancing would be to stultify the whole art of 
Terpsichore. For it resolved itself into nothing 
more or less than a perpetual circling round the 
fire in a sort of “Dervish” dance, only much 
more slowly accomplished. This was accom- 
panied by groans and wailings, until the 
woman had worked herself up into such a pitch 
of enthusiasm that she had become “ ecstatic.” 
The tears streamed from her eyes, and the 
saliva trickled from the corners of her mouth on 
to her dress until the sight utterly disgusted 
me. She simply was unable to stop, and I ex- 
pected every minute to see the shocking per- 
formance come to an abrupt end by her going 
into a fit, fainting, or doing something equally 
horrible. I suppose that the chief, seeing that 
we had nearly had enough of it, gave the sign 
to the woman’s friends. For they proceeded 
half to help and half to carry her off the scene, 
and dumped her into a corner, where I conclude 
she had leisure to collect her scattered senses. 
Meanwhile it seems that the hidden champion 
had over-excited himself. For he was altogether 
unable “‘ to come up to scratch,” a circumstance 
for which we were duly thankful. Had he 
improved upon the performance we had already 
witnessed I should probably have either started 
dancing “‘on my own” or have had to make a 
hurried exit from the show. Some years ago, 
194 
