H2 ?(.A{MBLES OF A VOMINIS 



i 



We pause a moment in the doorway to watch through 

 the smoke that fills the room the wild figures of the 

 revellers and the uncouth movements of the dance. 

 They are men, all of them, each one dancing alone, 

 stamping now and then and shouting, and clapping 

 broad and horny hands. Seated at a table in the corner, 

 a strolling player with olive cheeks and dark moustache 

 bends lovingly above his instrument. Beside him stands 

 a bright-eyed girl, whose coloured kerchief, snowy 

 sleeves and silver ornaments give finishing touches to 

 the picture. A plaintive song she sings, a song of 

 home, a note that ever finds an answering echo in the 

 heart of the wandering Bavarian. The rugged moun- 

 taineers, whose senses now are perhaps a little clouded 

 by the potent spirit of the Highlands, lend their deep 

 voices to the chorus. 



Suddenly a swarthy reveller, catching sight of strangers 

 in the doorway, comes forward with eager gestures of 

 welcome. His speech is thick, and the dialect is strange 

 to us, but there is no doubt at all about the meaning. 



It is 



" Will you come and join the dance ? 

 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you 

 join the dance?" 



As the zither player pauses to look up, a tall figure at 

 his side sets down on the table his unfinished tankard, 

 takes his rifle from the wall, his hat from the deer's 

 antler overhead, and comes out to greet us with a smile 

 of recognition on his weather-beaten face. Time has 

 turned to snow the sable of his long moustache ; but the 



