The roads were perfect everywhere, and we often drove into the country. The horses flew over the wide white stretches at an incredible speed.
One afternoon when, at the usual hour, the coachman rang the bell and announced that he was ready, I was greatly disappointed to find that we were not to have Elodia. But I said nothing, for I was shy about mentioning her name.
When we were seated, Severnius gave directions to the driver.
“Time yourself, Giddo, so that you will be at the Public Square at precisely three o’clock,” said he, and turned to me. “We shall want to see the parade.”
“What parade?” I inquired.
“Oh! has not Elodia told you? This is The Auroras’ Annual,—a great day. The parade will be worth seeing.”
In the excitement of the drive, and in my disappointment about not having Elodia with us, I had almost forgotten about The Auroras’ Annual, when three o’clock came. I had seen parades in New York City, until the spectacle had calloused my sense of the magnificent, and I very much doubted whether Mars had anything new to offer me in that line.
Punctual to the minute, Giddo fetched up at the Square,—among a thousand or so of other turnouts,—with such a flourish as all Jehus love. We were not a second too soon. There was a sudden burst of music, infinitely mellowed by distance; and as far up the street as the eye could well reach there appeared a mounted procession, advancing slowly. Every charger was snow white, with crimped mane and tail, long and flowing, and with trappings of various colors magnificent in silver blazonry.
The musicians only were on foot. They were beating upon drums and blowing transcendent airs through silver wind instruments. I do not know whether it was some quality of the atmosphere that made the strains so ravishing, but they swept over one’s soul with a rapture that was almost painful. I could hardly sit still, but I was held down by the thought that if I should get up I would not know what to do. It is a peculiar sensation.
On came the resplendent column with slow, majestic movement; and I unconsciously kept time with the drums, with Browning’s stately lines on my tongue, but unspoken: