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He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. A crone standing by with a smoky oil lamp rams the last bottle in the maw of his sack. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbish tip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat moves, groans, grinding growling teeth, and snores again. A pygmy woman swings on a rope slung between the railings, counting. THE IDIOT (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles.) Grhahute!

A chain of children's hands imprisons him.) (A deaf mute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. THE CALLS Wait, my love, and I'll be with you. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coal and copper snow.

Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled transiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'-the-wisps and danger signals.

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