When this verse ... ends, then ... scatter like ... rain;
And each dance a ... lone till we ... form it a ... gain.”
At the last word of the verse, the procession dissolved into a whirling crowd of figures, dancing, springing, spinning in their aimless evolutions. We were caught up in the mob; and only Glendyne’s grip on my arm prevented my being jostled from his side. A knot of the Dancers came about us and strove to excite us into their revels. Women with tossing hair besought us breathlessly to join them; men dragged at us, striving to bring us out among them. All the faces wore the same look of ardency, the same expression about the lips. Some were weary; but still the excitement bore them up in their convulsions. The temptation to join them became almost irresistible; and I felt myself being drawn into their ranks when suddenly the singing broke out once more.
“Here we go ... dancing ... under the ... Moon....”
The procession reformed in haste, gathering length as it went; and the Dancers began again to move eastward along Oxford Street. I watched them go, still feeling the attraction long after they were past; and only some minutes later I realised that Glendyne was still gripping my arm.
“Perhaps you understand now the way in which those two girls were lost,” he said. “A slight weakening of control, eh? Not so bad for a man; but when a girl gives in to it!... Let’s go up Rathbone Place, now. I expect we may meet something interesting in that direction.”
Interesting! I had had enough of interest these last few minutes. I was still quivering with the rhythm of that doggerel song. However, I followed him across Oxford Street, into Rathbone Place. Here the clothed skeletons lay more thickly about our path. Between Oxford Street and Black Horse Yard I counted thirty-seven. Many of them lay in the road; but the majority were huddled in corners and doorways, as though the poor wretches had sought a quiet place in which to die. In the distance I heard wild shouting and the sound of something like a tom-tom being beaten intermittently; whilst in the silences between these outbursts, the roar of the flames somewhere in the neighbourhood came to me over the roofs.
At the corner of Gresse Street, a gaunt creature sidled up to us furtively; looked us up and down for a moment; and whispered to me: “Are you one of us?” Then, catching sight of the Red Cross on my arm, he fled into the darkness of the side-street without waiting for an answer.
In Percy Street, the petroleuses were at work, methodically drenching houses with oil and setting them alight. One side of the street was already ablaze; and the light wind was blowing clouds of sparks broadcast over the neighbouring roofs. London was clearly doomed. Nothing could save it now, even had anyone wished to do so. As we stood at the street-corner, one of the hags passed us and snarled as she went by:
“We’ll roast you out of the West End soon, you —— burjwaw! There’ll be lights enough for you and yer women to dance by when Molly comes with her pail. You’ve trod us down and starved us long enough. It’s our turn now. It’s our turn now, d’yer hear? I could burn ye as ye stand”—she drew back her bucket as though to drench us with petrol—“but I want ye to dance with the rest to make it complete. We’ll fix ye before long, we will.”