ghed.

Forrester turned back. Behind a convenient bush, he and Diana made
themselves invisible again, and re-entered the Temple-on-the-Green.

The silence inside the Temple was deafening.

"The noise out there could break eardrums," Forrester complained. "I've
never heard anything like it."

"Just wait," Diana told him. "The music will start any time now--and
then you'll _really_ hear something." She paused. "Ready?"

Forrester glanced down at himself. "I guess so. How do I look?" He had
constructed a golden _chiton_ and mentally clothed himself in it. It was
covered by a grape-purple cloak embroidered with golden grapevines. And
around his head a circlet of woven grapevines had appeared, made of
solid gold. It was a little heavier than Forrester had expected it would
be, but it lent him, he thought, rather a dashing air.

"Great," Diana said. "Just great."

"Think so?" Forrester said, feeling rather pleased.

"Sure you do. Now go out there and give 'em the old college try."

Forrester gulped. "How about you?"

"Me? I'm on my way out of here. This is your show, kid. Make the most of
it."

Forrester watched her go out the rear door. He was alone. And the Autumn
Bacchanal Processional was about to begin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Noise! Forrester, seated in the great golden palanquin supported by
twelve hefty Priests of Dionysus, had never seen or heard anything like
it. He waited there on the steps of the little Temple-on-the-Green for
the Procession to wind by, so that he could take his place at the end of
it. But the Procession looked endless.

First came a corps of Priests and Myrmidons, leading their way stolidly
through the paths of Central Park. Following them came the revelers, a
mass of men and women marching, laughing, singing, shouting, dancing
their way along to the accompaniment of more music than Forrester had
ever dreamed of.

The Dionysians had practiced for months, and almost everything was
represented. There were violinists prancing along, violists and a crew
of long-haired gentlemen and ladies playing the viol da gamba and the
viol d'amore; there were guitarists plunking madly away, banjo players
strumming and ukelele addicts picking at their strings, somehow all
chorusing together. In a special pair of floats there were bass players,
bass fiddle players and cellists, jammed tightly together and somehow
managing to draw enormous sounds and scratches out of the big
instruments. And behin