Taffy still caught glimpses of jewels and uniforms, and white necks bending, and men leaning back in their chairs, with their mess-jackets open, and the candle-light flashing on their shirt-fronts.

Below, in the dark street, the bandmaster trimmed the lamp by his music-stand.

In the rays of it he drew out a handkerchief and polished the keys of his cornet; then passed the cornet over to his left hand, took up his baton, and nodded.
What music was that, stealing, rippling, across the square?
The bandmaster knew nothing of the tale of Tannhauser, but was wishing that he had violins at his beck, instead of stupid flutes and reeds.

And Taffy had never heard so much as the name of Tannhauser.
Of the meaning of the music he knew nothing--nothing beyond its wonder and terror.

But afterward he made a tale of it to himself.
In the tale it seemed that a vine shot up and climbed on the shadows of the warm night; and the shadows climbed with it and made a trellis for it right across the sky.