Taffy still caught glimpses of
jewels and uniforms, and white necks bending, and men leaning back in
their chairs, with their mess-jackets open, and the candle-light
flashing on their shirt-fronts. Below, in the dark street, the
bandmaster trimmed the lamp by his music-stand. In the rays of it he
drew out a handkerchief and polished the keys of his cornet; then
passed the cornet over to his left hand, took up his baton, and
nodded.

What music was that, stealing, rippling, across the square?
The bandmaster knew nothing of the tale of Tannhauser, but was
wishing that he had violins at his beck, instead of stupid flutes and
reeds. And Taffy had never heard so much as the name of Tannhauser.
Of the meaning of the music he knew nothing--nothing beyond its
wonder and terror. But afterward he made a tale of it to himself.

In the tale it seemed that a vine shot up and climbed on the shadows
of the warm night; and the shadows climbed with it and made a trellis
for it right across the sky. The vine thrust through the trellis
faster and faster, dividing, throwing out little curls and tendrils;
then leaves and millions of leaves, each leaf unfolding about a drop
of dew, which trickled and fell and tinkled like a bird's song.

The beauty and scent of the vine distressed him. He wanted to cry
out, for it was hiding the sky. Then he heard the tramp of feet in
the distance, and knew that they threatened the vine, and with that
he wanted to save it. But the feet came nearer and nearer, tramping
terribly.

He could not bear it. He ran to the stairs, stole down them, opened
the front door cautiously, and slipped outside. He was half-way
across the square before it occurred to him that the band had ceased
to play. Then he wondered why he had come, but he did not go back.
He found Honoria standing a little apart from the crowd, with her
hands clasped behind her, gazing up at the window of the
banqueting-room.

She did not see him at once.

"Stand on the steps, here," he whispered, "then you can see him.
That's the Colonel--the man at the end of the table, with the big,
grey moustache."

He touched her arm. She sprang away and stamped her foot.

"Keep off with you! Who _told_ you?--Oh! you bad boy!"

"Nobody. I thought you hated boys who wait to be told."

"And now you'll get the whooping-cough, and goodness knows what will
happen to you, and you needn't think I'll be sorry!"

"Who wants you to be sorry! As fo