“I wish he was the god of rum,” said the old toper; “for this ’ere sour stuff as th’ give us is ’nough to give us all cold in our insides. Lor’, wot music! Let’s give ’em a shanty.” “The skippers might not like it,” objected Dick anxiously. “Oh, they don’t mind. I ain’t going to let these coves have it all their own way.” Whereupon Gurt, in a raucous voice, struck up, “Rule, Britannia,” much to the amusement of Justinian. His messmates joined in the chorus, and though the wild orgiastic music still continued, it was almost drowned in the lusty chorus of “Britons never shall be slaves,” roared out by ten pairs of lusty lungs. The chariot of the god had perforce to be left at the head of the staircase, and Caliphronas, descending, led the way down to the valley, followed by all his barbaric crew. Shrill sounded the pipes, loud clashed the cymbals, and the bright sunshine shone on as merry a company of wine-worshippers as ever it did in the Athens of Æschylus. The vineyards of Melnos were planted on the sides of the mountain, where they rose terrace by terrace nearly up to the dark pine woods, which divided the vegetation from the snow with a broad green band. A wine-press was placed in nearly every one of these vineyards, but the place where the ceremonies were to take place lay near to the theatre, and was a particularly large enclosure, filled with long straggling vines, in the centre of which a huge whitewashed tank, piled with purple grapes, stood ready to be tramped out to the lower tank into which the juice flowed. Justinian and his guests were conducted to a kind of raised daïs, on which were placed seats tastefully wreathed with flowers, the most elaborate of all being reserved for Caliphronas, who, as the presiding deity of the feast, ranked for the day higher than the lord of the island. The scene was singularly picturesque: far above, piercing the blue sky, arose the snowy peaks, lower down the pine forests, then fields of yellow corn, divided by belts of gray olive trees and grape-laden vineyards, while the near slopes near the scene of the festival were covered with red-berried mastic bushes, delicate white cyclamens, rose-blossomed oleanders, pomegranate trees, and beds of strongly-scented thyme, filling the still warm air with aromatic odors. Amid all this beauty were the Bacchanalians with their many-colored garbs, the whiteness of the women’s dresses predominating, and the whole laughing throng swaying, leaping, whirling, bounding, gyrating to the wild music, shrill and plaintive as the wind, of their rude instruments. In such a vineyard might Dionysius appear to some modern Æschylus, and command him to kindle anew, with the breath of genius, the fire of the ancient goat-song, with its solemn splendors, gigantic scenes, and majestic figures of god, goddess, and hero.