"Gods of the firmament! do I dream, or am I awake? But surely that is Pinocchio!"
"It is indeed Pinocchio!" cried Punchinello.
"It is indeed himself!" screamed Miss Rose, peeping from behind the scenes.
"It is Pinocchio! it is Pinocchio!" shouted all the puppets in chorus, leaping from all sides on to the stage. "It is Pinocchio! It is our brother Pinocchio! Long live Pinocchio!"
"Pinocchio, come up here to me," cried Harlequin, "and throw yourself into the arms of your wooden brothers!"
At this affectionate invitation Pinocchio made a leap from the end of the pit into the reserved seats; another leap landed him on the head of the leader of the orchestra, and then he sprang upon the stage.
The embraces, the hugs, the friendly pinches, and the demonstrations of warm brotherly affection that Pinocchio received from the excited crowd of actors and actresses of the puppet dramatic company beat description.
The sight was doubtless a moving one, but the public in the pit, finding that the play was stopped, became impatient, and began to shout "We will have the play—go on with the play!"
It was all breath thrown away. The puppets, instead of continuing the recital, redoubled their noise and outcries, and putting Pinocchio on their shoulders they carried him in triumph before the footlights.
At that moment out came the showman. He was very big [page 402] and so ugly that the sight of him was enough to frighten anyone. His beard was as black as ink, and so long that it reached from his chin to the ground. I need only say that he trod upon it when he walked. His mouth was as big as an oven, and his eyes were like two lanterns of red glass with lights burning inside of them. He carried a whip made of snakes and foxes' tails twisted together, which he cracked constantly.