ian voice shouted out in
resonant accents:

"En avant, la grosse caisse!"

A man now, portly and gorgeous in scarlet and blue, detached himself
from out the crowd. His head was hidden beneath the monstrous mask of
a cardboard lion, roughly painted in brown and yellow, with crimson
for the widely open jaws and the corners of the eyes, to make them seem
ferocious and bloodshot. His coat was of bright crimson cloth, with cuts
and slashings in it, through which bunches of bright blue paper were
made to protrude, in imitation of the costume of mediaeval times.

He had blue stockings on and bright scarlet slippers, and behind him
floated a large strip of scarlet flannel, on which moons and suns and
stars of gold had been showered in plenty.

Upon his portly figure in front he was supporting the big drum, which
was securely strapped round his shoulders with tarred cordages, the
spoil of some fishing vessel.

There was a merciful slit in the jaw of the cardboard lion, through
which the portly drummer puffed and spluttered as he shouted lustily:

"En avant!"

And wielding the heavy drumstick with a powerful arm, he brought it
crashing down against the side of the mighty instrument.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! en avant les trompettes!"

A fanfare of brass instruments followed, lustily blown by twelve
young men in motley coats of green, and tall, peaked hats adorned with
feathers.

The drummer had begun to march, closely followed by the trumpeters.
Behind them a bevy of Columbines in many-coloured tarlatan skirts and
hair flying wildly in the breeze, giggling, pushing, exchanging ribald
jokes with the men behind, and getting kissed or slapped for their
pains.

Then the triumphal car of the goddess, with Demoiselle Candeille
standing straight up in it, a tall gold wand in one hand, the other
resting in a mass of scarlet berries. All round the car, helter-skelter,
tumbling, pushing, came Pierrots and Pierrettes, carrying lanthorns, and
Harlequins bearing the torches.

And after the car the long line of more sober folk, the older fisherman,
the women in caps and many-hued skirts, the serious townfolk who had
scorned the travesty, yet would not be left out of the procession. They
all began to march, to the tune of those noisy brass trumpets which were
thundering forth snatches from the newly composed "Marseillaise."

Above the sky became more heavy with clouds. Anon a few drops of rain
began to fall, making the torches sizzle a