asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleek hair and distending his nostrils.

‘Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs – everywhere. They say in ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their hymn – they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises� . This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid� . She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness� . Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.’