Light the flaming torches! Iakchos! come, Iakchos, and sanctify our glad festival!" "Come, Iakchos, come!" cried one and another, and soon the enthusiastic youth's cry was taken up on all sides.

But wine-skin and jar were long since emptied.
Hard by, below the cliff, and close to the sea, was a tavern, at the sign of the Cock.

Here cool drink was to be had; here the horses might rest-for the drivers had been grumbling bitterly at the heavy load added to the car over the deep sand--and here there was a level plot, under the shade of a spreading sycamore, which had often before now served as a floor for the choric dance.
The vehicle soon drew up in front of the whitewashed inn, surrounded on three sides by a trellised arbor, overgrown with figs and vine.

The young couples sprang to the ground; and, while the host and his slave dragged up a huge wine-jar with two ears, full of the red juice of the grape, fresh torches were lighted and stuck on poles or fastened to the branches of the sycamore, the youths took their places eager for the dance, and suddenly the festal song went up from their clear throats unbidden, and as though inspired by some mysterious power: Iakchos, come! oh, come, Iakchos! Hither come, to the scene of our revel, The gladsome band of the faithful.
Shake the fragrant, berried garland, Myrtle-twined, that crowns thy love-locks, Shedding its odors! Tread the measure, with fearless stamp, Of this our reckless, rapturous dance, In holy rejoicing! Hand in hand, thrice beatified, Lo we thread the rhythmic, fanciful, Mystical mazes! And the dance begins.

Youths and maidens advance to meet each other with graceful movements.