Meanwhile the morning-tinted mists whirled in a circular plane about the girl; suddenly they began to tremble and rise,--up, up until the ripple and shiver of the shaken silk took on the action and appearance of an illuminated cataract. Through it, the beautiful outlines of the dancer were distinguished, veiled as a Nereid beneath waters, leaping, running. Thousands below instinctively raised their arms to catch the figure which inevitably must leap through the inspirited cataract and over the parapet of the Temple unless the rosy element pent her within its bosom. The flight gradually changed from a simple step into the entanglement and intricacy of a dance. No gossamer adrift on the wind was more a creature of the air, no tranced ephemera more the genius of motion. The roar of the multitude failed in a vast suspiration of surprise and bewildered delight. Flora had invented, not a new wantonness, but a new grace. But the young men shouted: each sprang to a column which upheld the portico upon which Flora danced, and began to climb, helping themselves by the incrusted garlands of stone which ran up the pillars from base to capital. It was a contest in climbing, and the best of the contestants was not long in proving himself. He was one of the golden-haired Greeks and the multitude, for ever partizan to the strongest man, roared and thundered its encouragement to him. He went up with an ease and swiftness almost superhuman; now, he drew himself across the outstanding corner of the architrave, and stood with delicate foothold on its molding while he reached up past the frieze and caught the cornice with his hands. The dancer caught the flash of light on his golden stephane and wavered. "_Habet_! _Habet_!" roared the multitude. "Evoe, Ionides!" And Ionides, lazily lifting himself to the top of the portico, lingered a moment on one hand and knee to contemplate his prize. The cataract sank; the flying feet halted, the glory of fire and motion was lost in lengths of silk which the dancer began hastily to wind about her head and body. Sufficiently covered to hide her face, she paused and looked to see his further move. The Greek, with shining eyes and smiling lips, began slowly to raise himself. Then the one with the black curls and silken beard tore himself from the foremost of the crowd and rushed toward the portico. The dancer saw him come. She moved toward the edge of the cornice. The Greek leaped: the other below flung up his arms, but the roar of the multitude swept away the cry that came from his lips. The dancer, eluding the triumphant Greek, rushed over the brink of the portico and dropped like a plummet entangled in gossamer into the upreached arms of Marsyas below. Both fell like stones. But Marsyas sprang up with his prize in his arms, and fled up the steps through the black porch and the stone valves into the Temple of Rannu. [Illustration: Marsyas sprang up with his prize in his arms (missing from book)]