"Always, Claire, always. We shall never return."
The music stopped. They, too, stopped, out of breath and bewildered. The musician was folding up his accordion.
"Ah," cried the little brown girl, running up to them, "it is over too soon! But we cannot dance all night. There is work to-morrow."
"Yes," assented Claire, slowly. "You are right."
The wine-jugs were lifted and the wine-cups filled for the last time. Danilo took a perfunctory sip and passed his cup to Claire; she put it to her lips—this time the wine had a bitter taste. She thrust the drink from her at arm's-length and poured a red flood upon the tawny, sun-baked ground.
Already the company was departing. Claire and Danilo stood apart and watched them go. They dipped down the hillside, fading into the mists like a company of devout and penitent pilgrims. The fire had sunk to a heap of red embers.
"We must be going, too," said Claire.
They made their way back to the flight of steps. The west wind had risen sharply, and the fog parted in the breeze. The city was emerging from its gloom like a bejeweled woman dropping a scarf from her gleaming shoulders.
"Must ... must we really go back?" Claire asked, suddenly, as she drew away from the first downward step.
He took her hand. "Are you afraid ... with me?" he said, gently.