At last they
were through, next to the entrance, and in the very front row of all.
"Now you'll see the elephant," Robert laughed triumphantly, "every bit of
him,"
"Oh, my word!" Cosgrave gasped. "Oh, my word!"
It was coming. It made itself felt even before it came into sight by the
sudden tensity of the crowd, the anxious pressure from behind, the
determined pushing back by the righteously indignant in front, the craning
of necks, and indistinguishable, thrilling murmur. A small boy, whom
Robert recognized as the butcher's son, evidently torn between the dignity
and excitement of his new post, stalked ahead and thrust printed notices
into the outstretched hands. Robert seized hold of one, but he was too
excited to read. He felt Rufus poke him insistently.
"What's it say--what's it say?"
"Shut up--I don't know--look for yourself."
There they were. The six torch-bearers were dressed like mediaeval pages,
or near enough. Their tight-fitting cotton hose, sagging a little at the
knees, were sky-blue, and their tunics green and slashed with yellow.
They wore jaunty velvet caps and fascinating daggers, ready to hand. As
they reached the entrance to the tent they halted, and with some uneasy
shuffling formed up on either side, making a splendid passage of fire for
the ten Moorish horsemen who rode next, fierce fellows these, armed to the
teeth, with black, shining faces and rolling eyes. A band struck up
inside the tent to welcome them, and they rode through, scarcely bending
their proud heads--much to the relief of the more timorous members of the
crowd who had eyed the rear end of their noble steeds with a natural
anxiety.
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