“They do sometimes, as in the moloritis,” replied Helena, rising from her seat. “We will dance it now, and I think you will like it better than the syrtos.”
It was a graceful dance, and the music was more melodious. First, the four people danced together, then separately, and finally Crispin and Caliphronas indulged in wild saltatory leapings, while Helena and Zoe stood still, swaying from side to side, like nautch dancers.
“I think a waltz would be jollier than that,” said Maurice, when she returned to her seat.
“A waltz! what is that?” asked Helena innocently.
“I will show you some time during the day—that is, if we can get any one to play us the music.”
“Oh, Andronico, that old man with the violin, can pick up anything by ear. But see, we are now going to have some singing!”
A handsome young fellow stepped forward, escorted by a number of women, who joined in the chorus of the song, which was in praise of Dionysius and the vineyards. Maurice, owing to the skilful tuition of Helena, now knew enough Greek to understand the words, which, irregularly translated, were as follows:—
Solo.
Oh, my love, we went to the vineyards,
And there beheld bunches of purple wine fruit,