But retreat was impossible, for many were crowding up in eager curiosity; moreover, a muslin bandage descended-on her eyes. "Don't!" she expostulated; "I'm not at play--I'm--" but her words were lost. "Hush! the Peri's cave is near, No one enters scatheless here; Lightly tread and lowly bend, Win the Peri for your friend," sung a voice to the mysterious piano accompaniment; and Cecil found both hands taken, and was forced to move on, as she guessed the length of the conservatory, amid sounds of suppressed laughter that exceedingly annoyed her, till there was a pause and repetition of the two last lines with an attempt to make her obey them. She was too impatient and angry to perceive that it would have been much better taste to enter into the humour of the thing; and she only said with all her peculiar cold petulance, just like sleet, "Let me go, if you please; I am engaged. I am waited for." "Peri gracious, She's contumacious; Behold, every hair shall bristle When she hears the magic whistle!" and a whistle, sharp, long, and loud, sounded behind her, amid peals of merriment. She turned sharply round, but still the whistle was behind her, and rang out again and again, till she was half deafened, and wholly irate; while the repetition of "Bend, bend, lowly bend, Win the Peri for your friend," forced on her the conviction that on no other condition should she be set free, though the recognition of Terry's voice made the command doubly unpalatable, and as she made the stiffest and most reluctant of courtesies, a voice said, "Homage done, you may be Of this merry company;" and with a last blast of the whistle the bandage was removed, and she found herself in the midst of a half circle of laughing children and grown people; in front of her a large opening, like a cavern, hung with tiny lamps of various colours, in the midst of which stood the Peri, in a Persian pink robe, white turban, and wide white trousers, with two oriental genies attendant upon her. A string was thrust into Cecil's hand, apparently fastened to her, and accounting for some sharp pulls she had felt during the whistling. She drew it in front in sharp haste, to be rid of the obnoxious instrument; but instead of a whistle, she found in her hand a little dust-pan and brush, fit for a baby-house, drawn through a ring, while the children eagerly cried, "What have you got? What have you got?" "Some nonsense. I do not approve of practical jokes," began Cecil; but the song only replied, "Away, away, In the cave no longer stay; Others come to share our play;"