As Maurice approached the vineyard, he heard shouts of laughter, and found it was owing to the latest amusement, that of dancing on the slippery surface of a skin of wine,—a pastime as old as the days of the Dionysia itself. Many skilful dancers fell off; and it was long before any one succeeded in carrying off the prize, which was the skin of wine itself; but ultimately it fell to the lot of the handsome young Palikar who had sung the song about St. Dionysius. Helena looked apprehensively at him when he appeared, as she was afraid there had been a quarrel between her two suitors; but Maurice calmed her fears by a smile, and together they watched a sailor’s hornpipe danced by Dick to the music supplied by old Andronico, who had picked up the air from Gurt’s whistling. Justinian was in ecstasies over the dance, and made Dick sing some sea-songs, which, with the rude but tuneful chorus of his messmates, made the old man’s eyes flash with patriotic fire. “I’m only Greek on the surface, you see,” he said to Crispin, with a somewhat sad smile; “but my heart is English still.” “Hearts of oak!” replied Crispin gayly. “After all, there is no place like England; for you see Melnos, with all its tropical loveliness, is still unsatisfying when memories of white-cliffed Albion awaken in your heart.” “Bravo, Crispin!” cried Maurice, who had heard this speech; “you are a true patriot, and must confirm your views by singing ‘Home, sweet Home.’” Crispin, nothing loath, did so; and the Greeks, attracted by the beautiful air, crowded round to listen. The darkness was falling fast, for the long day was nearly at an end, and through the still night sounded the liquid notes of a cock nightingale calling to his mate; but higher than the voice of the bird arose that tender old melody, which brings tears to the eyes of those absent from their own fireside. Justinian, leaning his white head on his hand, listened intently; and when the song was ended, Maurice could have sworn in the dim light that a sudden tear flashed like a jewel down his withered cheek. It was extraordinary to see this man of iron, astute, keen ruler as he was, so touched by the simple little song, which he had heard perchance at his mother’s knee; and from that moment Maurice always believed in Justinian, whom he was certain must have a good heart, when so affected by that pleading air. Torches were now brought, the wild music burst out anew, and the revellers prepared to escort their Demarch back to the Acropolis. Caliphronas, apparently as merry as ever, made his appearance in new clothes, and resumed his sceptre and vineleaf crown. Along the street danced the procession, with clash of cymbal and throb of drum; torches flaring in the windless air on the excited faces of their bearers; and it was like a confused dream, with the flash of white robes, the tossing red lights, the barbaric pomp, and the swaying, restless, dancing crowd.