them. Evening was near and the way to Marisel had no end. It went from
valley to valley, never once passing a human habitation. The rocks in
the way and the streams crossing at different points made it almost
impassable. At last in one part of the forest a column of fire rose
before them and the sound of singing fell on their ears. As they came
nearer they saw the fire of a pyre built up of whole tree-trunks, in a
spot shaded by trees the foliage of which was scorched by the flames.
Near this was a crowd of Wallachians leaping wildly with violent
gestures; at the same time they beat the ground with long clubs and
seemed to be treading letters into the ground, waving their arms
frantically, while they howled out verses that were formulated
imprecations, as if they were driving out some kind of evil spirit. A
circle of young women danced round the men. The lovely creatures, with
their black hair interwoven with ribbons and jewels, their
flower-embroidered dresses, pleated neckerchiefs, broad-striped
aprons, gold earrings, necklaces of silver coins and high-heeled red
boots, formed an agreeable contrast to the wild, defiant-looking men,
with their high cocked hats on the heavy shocks of hair, their
sunburned necks, greasy waistcoats and broad girdles. The dance and
the songs were also strange. The women circled in and out among their
husbands, raising a mournful wail, while the men stamped on the
ground and joined in with yells of triumph. The fire threw a red light
and dark shadows over the wild group. On a tree stump beyond sat an
old piper, and from a goatskin drew forth monotonous tones that
mingled with the song in wild discord. When the fire was burned down
to ashes the dancers suddenly separated, dragged out the figure of a
woman stuffed with straw and dressed in rags, laid it on two poles and
carried it to the fire crying wildly in Hungarian, "Tuesday
evening,[1] Tuesday evening!" and repeated three times, "Burn to
ashes, you accursed witch of Tuesday evening!" Then they threw it into
the glowing coals and the women danced round with cries of joy until
the effigy was entirely burned, while the men leaped about with wild
shouts.

[Footnote 1: On this day superstition assigns peculiar power to the
witches.]

"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" called out Clement, who
had until then escaped their notice.

"We live in Marisel and have burned up Tuesday evening," they answered
with one voice and with earne