The music was like the light itself...always suggesting a form or shape but never fully being that form or shape, before changing into another. And, in the midst, our young maid, at one moment, sinks to the earth writhing, arms and shoulders in constant motion, and, at another, leaps into the air spinning. She never seems to tire. The feelings that infuse her being are as the interplay of light and music...never fully formed before the next supersedes. Always suggesting one thing and then presenting another for her inner being's delighted scrutiny.
But now the music stops. The shepherd is seen sitting on the branch of a tree, face aglow. The light reconstituting into broken shadows of moonlight beneath the leafy tree or clear, icy patches across the open ground, waxing and waning as the clouds move relentlessly across the night sky----and the maid lies back against a tree, panting...at rest at last.
When the music starts again, it is a new kind of melody, haunting in its simplicity--in its deep, fruity, wooden tones. She finds her movements more languorous, more voluptuous. Now she lies on a slightly rounded hillock, arms and legs spread wide, as if beseeching the moon, itself, to take her as she lay, but the moon passes overhead casting blue-white sparks onto the night. The shepherd seems to pay no heed yet the melody changes ...and soon the shadows beneath the trees again are alive with groups of beings who pass among each other chalices, goblets, cups of deep-colored liquors whose aroma and body intertwine with the music itself...and beckon her again into the group.