the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of which was the woodsawyer

hand in hand with The Vengeance. There could not be

fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five

thousand demons. There was no other music than their own

singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song, keeping a

ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and

women danced together, women danced together, men danced

together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were

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a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as

they filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some

ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among

them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another’s hands,

clutched at one another’s heads, spun round alone, caught one

another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped.

While those were down, the rest linked hand in hand, and all spun

round together: then the ring broke, and in separate rings of two

and four they turned and turned until they all stopped at once,

began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the

spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped

again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the

width of the public way, and, with their heads low