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In the shop a single gas-light was burning its last, and this, with that near the pier, were the only two that I saw: and ghastly enough they looked, transparently wannish, and as it were ashamed, like blinking night-things overtaken by the glare of day.
Hither and thither the circles move round and round. There is poetry in this fire-motion; and the great army of fire-dancers become excited under it, and prepared for the frenzy of the Spirit-dance that is to follow. The torches go out. The moon turns the smoke into wannish clouds of white and yellow, which slowly rise, break, and disappear. There is another roll of drums.
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