was music which struck me with unutterable sadness,—like the voice of deep anguish, which bursts from homeless, hopeless wanderers. It opened with a wail, which grew gradually louder, the women interspersing their part with shrill cries. The song became more spirited as it went on, and the screams more frequent, till I imagined it to be the cry of souls in mortal agony, and shuddered instinctively as I listened. The leader swung his guitar about his head, placed one hand on his hip, and danced a few steps in a slow, mournful way. When the song ended, it was quite a shock to be brought back to every-day life by the bright, cheerful voice of Alice.
"What do you think of it?" she inquired.
"Don't ask me: it is too strange and weird. How dreamy they all look, as though they had insight into a region which is hidden from us!"
"It is a pity they affect French toilettes now, instead of clinging to their own costumes: they are quite picturesque in their national dress. Some of them," added my sister, "are very wealthy; but such is the love they have for a Bohemian life that they remain with the band."
"Look at this!" said Nicolas hastily.
The chorus had begun again; and, while the voices rose and fell in that unearthly wail, a woman stood up, waved her arms slowly round her head in a circling, sleepy movement, and glided about the stage,—being apparently impelled by some influence outside of herself, for there was no motion of the feet that we could see. She made the circuit two or three times; then the accompaniment grew wilder, the dancer uttered a sharp
