and around the goblet,
Around the goblet--around the goblet--
Dionysus wrapped his hand around the goblet,
And we'll all get--stinking drunk!_"

It was by no means an official hymn, but Forrester didn't mind; it was
sung with such a great deal of honest enthusiasm. He himself did not
join in the singing; he was otherwise occupied. With his arms around two
of the girls, drinking now and then from the great goblet three more
were holding, and winking and laughing at the extra two, he made his
joyous way down the petal-strewn paths of Central Park.

The Procession wound down through the paths, over bridges and under
tunnels, singing and playing and marching and dancing madly, while
Forrester, at its head, caroused as merrily as any four of them. They
reached a bridge crossing a little stream and Forrester sprang at it
with a great somersaulting leap that carried the two girls he was
holding right along with him. He set them down at the slope of the
bridge, laughing and giggling and the other girls, with the Procession
behind them, soon caught up. Forrester let go of one of the girls,
grabbed the goblet with his free hand and swung it in a magnificent
gesture.

"Forward!" he cried.

The Procession surged over the bridge, Forrester at its head. He grabbed
the girl again, handing the goblet back to his corps of three carriers,
and bowed and grinned at his worshippers behind him, surging forward,
and at some others standing under the bridge, ankle-deep, shin-deep,
even knee-deep in the rushing water, craning their necks upward to get a
really good view of their God as he passed over. There were over a
hundred of them there.

Forrester didn't see a hundred of them.

He saw one of them first, and then two more. And time seemed to stop
with a grinding halt. Forrester wanted to run and hide. He clutched the
girls closer to him with one instinctive gesture, and then realized he'd
made the wrong move. But it was too late. He was lost, he told himself
dolefully. The sun had gone out, the wine had lost its power and the
celebration had degenerated to a succession of ugly noises.

The first face he saw belonged to Gerda Symes.

In that timeless instant, Forrester felt that he could see every detail
of the soft, small face, the dark hair, the slim, curved figure. She was
smiling up at him, but her face looked a little bewildered, as if she
were smiling only because it was the thing to do. Forrester wondered,
panic