ppose we may not classify the procession as literature assisted by
dance, because literature ought to have words and dance ought to have
music."

"The words are not omitted," he replied; "they are in the little book.
Besides, we have the story in our minds as with programme music. The
omission of the music from the dance is more serious. It may be that we
shall have to call it a variety of drama, as you originally suggested."

"Oh, but that," I replied modestly, "was only thrown out before I had the
advantage of hearing your scheme of classification. May it not be
that--"

"I have it," he interrupted. "Of course, how stupid I have been! The
procession does not move."

"Does not move!" I echoed. "Why, it moved all through the town."

"Yes, I know; but things like that often happen in classification," he
replied calmly. "Properly considered, each figure and each group
illustrated a separate point in the story, and was rigid. They went past
us, of course; and if they had gone on cars it would have been less
puzzling; but these good people cannot afford cars and so the figures had
to walk. It would have done as well if the public had walked past the
figures, but that would have been difficult to manage. The only movement
in the procession was in the story which we held in our minds, and of
which we were reminded both by the title and by the little book which we
held in our hands. The procession must be classified as literature
illustrated by living statuary, or sculpture, which, of course, is a
branch of painting."

I regret that the French gentleman left Calatafimi so early next morning
that I had no opportunity of ascertaining whether he slept well after
determining that processions do not proceed.

PALERMO

CHAPTER XIV--SAMSON

The next time I was in Palermo, Turiddu, the conduttore, who used to take
me about the town, had returned after being for a year in Naples. He was
employed at another hotel, but that did not prevent his making an
appointment to take me to the marionettes. My experiences at Trapani had
removed all sense of danger, and I now felt as safe in the theatre as in
the streets of London. Statistics may or may not support the view, but I
am inclined to attribute the general impression that Sicily is more
dangerous than other countries, less to the frequency of crime there than
to the operatic manner in which it is committed. So that I no longer
wanted Turiddu to protect m