The new-comers were clad in all sorts of fantastic garbs, and many of them were masked. Phœbe and her sister were therefore not conspicuous in their long scant black skirts and cloth jackets with balloon sleeves. Their costumes were taken for disguises, and as they were swallowed up in the mad throng they were looked on as fellow revellers.
Had Rebecca been alone, she would probably have succeeded in time in working her way out of this unwelcome crowd, but to her amazement, no sooner had they been surrounded by the young roysterers than Phœbe, breaking her long silence, seized her sister by the hand and began laughing, dancing, and running with the best of them. To crown all, what was Rebecca's surprise to hear her sister singing word for word the madcap song of the others, as though she had known these words all her life. She did not even skip those parts that made Rebecca blush.
It was incredible—monstrous—impossible! Phœbe, the sweet, modest, gentle, prudish Phœbe, singing a questionable song in a whirl of roystering Jerusalemites!
Up the broad road they danced—up to the northward, all men making way for them as, with hand-bag and umbrella flying in her left hand, she was dragged forward on an indecorous run by Phœbe, who held her tightly by the right.
On—ever on, past wayside inn and many a lane and garden, house and hedge. Over the stones and ruts, choking in clouds of dust.
Once Rebecca stumbled and a great gawky fellow caught her around the waist to prevent her falling.
"Lips pay forfeit for tripping feet, lass!" he cried, and kissed her with a sounding smack.
Furious and blushing, she swung her hand-bag in a circle and brought it down upon the ravisher's head.
"Take that, you everlastin' rascal, you!" she gasped.
The bumpkin dodged with a laugh and disappeared in the crowd and dust, cuffing, pushing, scuffling, hugging, and kissing quite heedless of small rebuffs.