I
 
 PAN S 
 MOUNTAIN 
 
 BY 
 
 AM E LI E RIVES 
 
 (PRIMNESS TROUBETZKOY) 
 
 The blood, the blood that flows through the veins of men 
 
 As rivers through meadows flow, 
 The blood was jealous of all the birds sweet songs, 
 
 And said, How I shall sing! 
 
 The blood was jealous of all the wild winds songs, 
 And said, How I shall sing! " 
 
 From The Bard of The Dimbovitza 
 
 HARPER ^BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 M C M X
 
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 3 6 
 
 BOOKS BY 
 AM E LI E R IVE S 
 
 (PRINCESS TROUBETZKOY) 
 
 TRIX AND OVEK-THE-MOON .... Post 8vO $1.00 
 
 SELENE Post 8vo, net 1.20 
 
 VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. Illustrated . . . 12mo .75 
 THE GOLDEN ROSE . . Post 8vo 1.25 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by HARPER & BROTHERS 
 
 Published September, 1910. 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 WITH ABIDING LOVE AND GRATITUDE
 
 Upon an evening in the month of May, 
 When from the heavens like a burning tear 
 
 The sun dropped down, 
 Then did the blood awaken in the veins 
 Of the young maiden wandering through the -fields. 
 Then the blood cried to her, 
 And the blood burned in her, 
 And, as it burned within her, thus it spake: 
 "What art thou making, maiden, of thy youth? 
 
 What wilt thou make of me? 
 I tire of this light tripping to and fro, 
 This idle running through thy strong young frame, 
 Now, would I fain stand still and do my work; 
 And mark, when thou shall see 
 This work of thine own flesh, thy blood renewed, 
 Then shalt thou thank the blood that gave thee this. " 
 So the blood burned within her, 
 And thus it cried to her. 
 And there beside the maize-field, 
 The other one was waiting, 
 He the mysterious one. 
 
 In the month of May, at even, 
 The sun drops down from heaven 
 Heavily, like a tear. 
 
 From "The Bard of The Dimbovitza."
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OCARRED, stained, with that look of blended 
 O gloom and gayety that one sees sometimes 
 in the faces of the aged who have lived roundly, 
 the old house, leaning backward a little among 
 its supporting rocks, stared down upon the valley 
 and the shining lake. 
 
 The corrugated line of its tiled eaves lent it 
 a certain air of petulance, as of one frowning 
 against the sun, and from beneath peered its 
 small, deep-socketed eye-windows. It was a 
 house with a personality, with a character, with 
 an expression of its own. And its charm was 
 that of the irregular beauty who has kept the 
 magic of sex against time and against disease. 
 
 The winds and rains that had helped to crumble 
 it had woven also a dim veil of lovely hues across 
 its peeling stucco. Birds quickened its curtains 
 of thick vines, and bees filled its blossoming 
 coigns and hollows with their low bourdonment 
 till one thought of a great shell stranded upon the
 
 mountains and still full of the far-off humming of 
 the sea. 
 
 At its back the village curs barked and the 
 village children shouted, and the dull "toe toe" 
 of the wooden balls in games of boccie could be 
 heard on festas and Sundays. But in front and 
 on both sides its own queer gardens rambled and 
 sprawled and fell sheer to the white road, upon 
 which one looked out through an old, old iron 
 gate, which was always locked, upon which one 
 thumped for admittance with an iron knocker 
 even more ancient, and of which Cecca carried 
 the key in her petticoat of dark-green fustian. 
 
 Once through this gate, with the sharp pebbles 
 of the ascent scattering back beneath one s tread, 
 the witchcraft of the place was upon one. The 
 "aura," the "ambiente," of the old house, dom 
 inant and feminine, soaked through and through 
 with the personalities of those who had been 
 born and who had died there, this "orrenda," 
 as the Iroquois would say, closed in about 
 one, palpable to the finer senses, a thing that 
 touched one as music, as the gathering of a storm 
 touches one. One, as it were, came "in touch" 
 with the brooding house, and felt that eerie sense 
 of unreasoning expectation of things about to 
 happen. 
 
 This first slope of the garden was very dark 
 and dank, and smelled always like autumn woods 
 after rain. The strangest mingling of palms
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 and old tree-box tented out the passionate blue 
 of the sky ; gnarled cherry-trees, wrapped in vine- 
 cloaks, bent glumly toward the fat, black soil; 
 raspberry bushes struggled with agave plants; 
 rank, graveyard-looking grass lay in matted 
 tresses along the walks. 
 
 Then suddenly one turned, and there was the 
 house, in full sunlight, high on its walled terrace, 
 and the view of sky and lake bursting upon one 
 in a silent explosion of blue and silver fire. 
 
 This was Dione s home. Here she had been 
 born, and here she had lived for eighteen years, 
 summer and winter, with Cecca, her mother s old 
 nurse, as chief companion. Her father, who had 
 died when she was fourteen, although he had 
 loved her well, had been to her more an oracle 
 than a companion. She had thought him mys 
 terious, in the deeper, more awful sense of the 
 word, and she had never sought to pierce this 
 mysteriousness. This was intimately character 
 istic of Dione. From him she had her smattering 
 of Greek and Latin, her average knowledge of 
 the old Italian poets, her more than average 
 knowledge of mythology. It was her father who 
 had named her "Dione." To her mother, exas 
 perated and outraged, who, as a meticulous 
 Roman Catholic, had desired to name her in 
 honor of Santa Cecilia, he had explained that 
 Dione was the daughter of ^Ether and Ge of 
 Earth and Sky. 
 
 3
 
 -PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "As you know," said he, "I have no wish that 
 my child should be a daughter of the Church. I 
 was baptized into that Church without my con 
 sent. She will be baptized into it without her 
 consent, according to the promise that I made 
 you. But as she grows older she shall choose 
 her faith or unfaith for herself. She shall be 
 quite free. If she grows into a true child of 
 earth and sky, that is all that I can wish for her. 
 I am sorry to annoy you, but a pinch of truth in 
 the beginning is better than a fistful in the end." 
 
 I should be thankful that you did not choose 
 to call her Ghe, " retorted Madame Rupin, with 
 explicable spite, "as in that case people would 
 think that you had named her from a verb in the 
 dialect. As it is, the poor little thing will have 
 no festa, no name-day 
 
 She can have her birthday, after the English 
 custom. As for Dione/ you will admit that it is 
 a pretty name, at least." 
 
 "It is pagan and heathen ..." 
 
 "I am pagan and heathen ..." 
 
 "E vero! . . . & vero!" cried his wife; and as 
 his tall figure composedly passed through the 
 door she "threw it after him" with both tiny 
 hands, and said, in dialect, "May the devil eat 
 you!" For Madame Rupin was not as refined in 
 her language and emotions as in her appearance. 
 
 Her husband was a Servian, she an Italian, the 
 daughter of a well-to-do Intrese wine-merchant, 
 
 4
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 and, on the distaff side, the descendant of an old 
 family of the lesser gentry near Canobbio. She 
 had been a beauty in her youth, and was still a 
 very pretty woman of forty, blond, small, with 
 charming pointed hands and feet, and the neatly 
 finished, glistening, slightly malicious eyes of a 
 Ouisteetee. It was strange how, from this 
 fragile, delicately tinted body, there emanated a 
 vibrant sensuality as pungent, as personal as the 
 odor of some frail yet fleshly orchids. It was 
 stifling or exhilarating according to the nature of 
 the person that it affected. Her husband seemed 
 to have withdrawn and closed in upon himself 
 under its influence. He made the impression 
 upon people of a cold, still man, whose decided 
 opinions, felt to be adverse, were never uttered. 
 "Non e simpatico" was the general verdict, fol 
 lowed usually by a shrug and "That poor, charm 
 ing little woman!" 
 
 Upon Dione, from her babyhood, Madame Ru- 
 pin seemed to have much the same effect that 
 she had upon Rupin himself. Not that the child 
 showed any aversion to her mother; but she 
 seemed to regard her with a certain aloofness, as 
 one apart from herself, standing quietly near her 
 when called, and regarding her with serious, fixed 
 eyes, as though asking, Who are you ? Are you 
 really my mother?" This unconscious attitude 
 of Dione s produced at last in her mother 
 a sense of injured and irritated repulsion. 
 
 5
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "She is all her father s! She is he, himself, 
 over again!" she would cry. "I have no part in 
 her. When she stares at me like that I feel as 
 though she were putting the evil eye upon me!" 
 
 And when Cecca scolded her soundly for such 
 a wicked judgment of her own flesh and blood, 
 she would only shriek, nervously, "Stregascia! 
 (Bad old witch !) I tell you there s not a shred of 
 my flesh nor a drop of my blood in her! She ll 
 grow up to do me an evil! . . . You will see." 
 
 But later, when the child began to develop a 
 certain different beauty of her own, with her 
 deep-set Slav eyes looking out from thick flame- 
 lets of crisp black hair, and her little fluted 
 mouth, red as the fruit of cherry-laurels breaking 
 the clear amber of her face, then it was "Tesoro 
 mio," and "Stella," and "Gioia." And frocks 
 of lace were bought, and rosy sashes, and little 
 shoes of bronze and gold. But this phase ended 
 one day in disaster, when Cecca showed the out 
 raged mother the lace frock torn to strips and 
 the small shoes soggy with the water of the 
 mountain pool, in which Dione had set them 
 floating for boats. 
 
 "I do not like them," was all that she would 
 say by way of explanation. "I like good linen, 
 like Cecca s, that won t tear, and can be washed 
 and dried on the grass. And I like to feel the 
 earth under my toes. It likes to feel me, and I 
 like to feel it." 
 
 6
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Thus the child grew up in the centre of a tri 
 angle formed by her captious, capricious mother, 
 her silent father, and her old, very wise, very 
 foolish nurse. 
 
 She knew a little of a good many things, but of 
 nothing very much save the mythology of Greece 
 and Rome. Her father, among other things, had 
 taught her to speak French. As for the varied 
 bits of learning upon which he fed her, "Never 
 be afraid of having a smattering of things," he 
 had said to her one day. "To have even pin- 
 holes to look through is better than being shut 
 behind a blank wall." 
 
 Dione never forgot this. She read or skimmed 
 whatever came to her hand, but from first to last 
 what most appealed to her was the idea of the 
 bright, fierce, ruthless gods that had peopled 
 earth and air for men of old.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IT was one of those violent blue-hot days 
 that come in June to Lago Maggiore. It 
 seemed as though the air would crackle with 
 electricity did one sweep a hand through it, but 
 no wind moved on the water. The tramontana 
 had gasped itself away before midday, and the 
 inverna was still dozing. 
 
 Behind the Sasso di Ferro huge cirrus clouds 
 were creaming up. Dione, at full length on her 
 back among the tangled grass and little, burning 
 jewels of the wild flowers, could make out a vast 
 form of Juno in her chariot, with a milk-white 
 peacock trailing its silvered tail along the blue. 
 
 "If Juno melts first, I will go and talk with 
 Cecca. If the peacock melts first, I will . . . 
 What shall I do, Masciett ?" 
 
 Masciett, her big white dog, a cross between 
 the pure Esquimau sledge-dog and the short- 
 haired Siberian "laika," the last gift of her father, 
 heaved himself upon one haunch, and, fixing his 
 kingly eyes of amber-hazel upon hers, let fall a 
 majestic paw upon her breast. Then he drooped 
 his head upon it and breathed forth a gentle sigh.
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Sentimentale!" said Dione, and tapped his 
 nose. He looked wounded, sent a flash of tongue 
 across the place that her fingers had stung, and 
 withdrew his head. 
 
 Juno dissolved first, losing her tiara and one arm. 
 
 "Ecco! ... So it s Cecca! Come, Masciett." 
 
 She sprang to her feet with one supple move 
 ment that would have brought her praise in a 
 gymnasium, and went, with her long, free gait, 
 toward the house, Masciett, like the white wolf 
 of a fairy-tale, loping beside her. 
 
 As she passed through the crooked old hall 
 toward Cecca s kingdom the voices of her mother 
 and some guests came to her from the salottino. 
 
 "Eh, car a mia," a woman was saying, "to hide 
 her moros (lover) under an altar, and that altar 
 built over a bath - tub ! What do you say to 
 that? ..." 
 
 Dione s high little nose wrinkled up precisely 
 as Masciett s did when he sniffed the loathed 
 aroma of a cat. 
 
 "That is all they talk of or think of morning, 
 noon, and night! . . . They make me schivi 
 (sick), the whole lot of them! . . . B-r-r-r ..." 
 
 And she scudded like a deer to be out of the 
 sound of the unctuous and slanderous voices. 
 
 The house of Vareggio had been once called 
 The House of the Weasel-man, because of its 
 curious and winding under - passages and little 
 chambers. Now it was usually spoken of as 
 
 9
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 The House of the Weasel. Through these 
 chill, dark labyrinths Dione had to make her 
 way, in order to reach Cecca s bedroom. A 
 little shiver ran over her as the dank fungus- 
 scented air struck her glowing young body, and 
 she ran faster than ever up the queer little stone 
 staircase that brought her to her nurse s door. 
 There she stopped short, arrested by a shaft of 
 sunlight that, darting through a window over 
 head, struck across some freshly painted words 
 above the lintel. 
 
 Ito, alo Massa Dandi Bandi III. I.R.N.R.I. , 
 read the young girl under her breath. "What 
 new witchcraft is Cecca after now?" 
 
 She set the blackened old door wide with one 
 fling of her arm. 
 
 "Salute, strega bianca" (Hail, white witch), 
 said she. 
 
 Cecca was an imposing and beautiful old 
 woman. She looked up calmly with broad hazel 
 eyes, and replied: 
 
 "It is not a good thing to call any witch, 
 whether white, black, or gray." 
 
 With that she "made horns," the sign against 
 evil, with both hands, and then resumed com 
 posedly her task of sorting the dried herbs which 
 lay in little bundles on the narrow oak table 
 before her. 
 
 "Pardon," said Dione. "I thought a white 
 witch meant a good person." 
 
 IO
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 No witch is good. Some persons have power 
 against evil, but that is not to be a witch. When 
 things are bolic I throw good against them. I 
 have that power. But that is not to be a witch." 
 
 Dione came and sat beside the table. She put 
 an elbow between two bundles of herbs, and took 
 her chin upon her palm. 
 
 "Do not be offended," said she. "I did not 
 know. I will never say so again. When you 
 say bolic I suppose you mean diabolic ?" 
 
 "I mean exactly what I say," replied Cecca, 
 firmly. "No more, no less." 
 
 "I see," said Dione. "Those herbs smell very 
 good." 
 
 "Some are good and some are evil. You can 
 no more judge herbs by their smell than men by 
 their words." 
 
 "I see," said Dione again. 
 
 "The evil herbs," volunteered Cecca after a 
 pause, "are to fight evil with as when one says 
 Fight the devil with fire. The good herbs are 
 also to be used against evil, but then, also, they 
 can be used for good alone." 
 
 "It is very interesting, truly," said Dione. 
 "Tell me some more about them. What is that 
 one for that you have in your hand?" 
 
 "Eh, Gioia, this is a very remarkable herb, 
 and a truly beneficent one. It is called Con- 
 cordia. I can tell you a strange and true story 
 about this herb." 
 
 ii
 
 A light came into her vivid eyes, and a smile, 
 tranquil and pleasant to see, stirred her lips. 
 
 Tell it, Cecca mine. You know how it pleases 
 me to hear your stories." 
 
 "Tesoro mio," said Cecca, standing erect, and 
 spreading the fingers of her right hand toward 
 Dione in a fine gesture, "this is a true tale." 
 
 "I listen," said Dione. 
 
 Then Cecca, with another of her noble gest 
 ures, took a sprig of the herb between her thumb 
 and forefinger, and, holding it up, addressed to 
 it her story, as to the mysterious protagonist. 
 
 "This little leaflet, stem, and flower that you 
 see here in my hand, seemingly so weak a thing, 
 this little twig that some would call a weed and 
 tread under foot, is stronger than you or I, 
 Gioia mia yes, stronger than a whole village 
 full than a whole town full as big as Milano 
 than an army than all the people of the whole 
 world. It is a power for good, and more than 
 that an angel is not. Yes, Tesoro, look well at it. 
 This little herb has a power that priests have 
 not." 
 
 "Tell me what power it has, dear Cecca." 
 "Concordia is its name, and concord it has 
 power to bring between man and wife. Listen. 
 I will tell you a true tale. You know Luisin and 
 Tilde, who live in the third house from the well 
 in Vareggio. Eh ! You will remember how they 
 were always quarrelling. It was sticks for break- 
 
 12
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 fast and sticks for supper. Blind as moles they 
 were to the good in each other. They had slices 
 of salami on the eyes of their hearts as big as this 
 big palm of mine. So Tilde comes to me crying 
 one night. Her back is all blue and green where 
 he banged her with the tongs. Says she: Oh, 
 Cecca! You have the good power, they say. 
 Give me a spell, for my man will surely kill me 
 some day if there is no help. Priests are no 
 good, the Madonna pardon me, says she. Then, 
 Gioia, what do I say to her? Take this little 
 herb, say I. Little it is, but it is stronger than 
 your man, even when he has the tongs, say I. 
 Take this little herb it was not so big a piece 
 as this bit I hold here in my hand, car a mia 
 take this, say I, giving it to her, and boil it in 
 your minestron, and see that of that soup you 
 eat together. Thus I tell her. ..." 
 
 She stopped short, brought the sprig of Con- 
 cordia close to her eyes, regarded it earnestly, 
 then held it off again, and pointed to it with the 
 forefinger of her other hand. 
 
 "Well?" said Dione. 
 
 "My treasure," said Cecca, "that was eight 
 months ago, and they have never quarrelled 
 since." 
 
 "Miraculous!" said Dione. 
 
 "Yes, it is miraculous," assented Cecca. "Will 
 you keep this sprig for good-fortune?" 
 
 "A thousand thanks! I shall love to have it." 
 13
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 She slipped it in the folds of her soft, green 
 linen blouse, and then, chin on both hands, sat 
 listening gravely to further stories of the herbs 
 and their "powers." At last Cecca said, sud 
 denly : 
 
 "And la mamma? Were the sciori (gentle 
 folk) still in the house as you came through?" 
 
 "Yes. Cecca, how can my mother amuse her 
 self with such tattling, gossiping, geese of peo- 
 
 pie? ; 
 
 "E una bambina" (She s a baby), said Cecca, 
 indulgently. 
 
 "E una bambola" (She s a doll), replied Dione, 
 not with scorn or with intention of disrespect, 
 but merely as one stating a fact. 
 
 "My dear," said Cecca, sternly, "that is not a 
 good way to speak, as I have said before. After 
 all, she is your mother. Honor thy father and 
 thy mother. " 
 
 "I have always thought that a foolish saying," 
 replied Dione, unmoved. "Either one s parents 
 are honorable and one honors them, or they are 
 not, and one does not. I honored my father. I 
 could as soon honor a little yellow hen as my 
 mother. It is all very well to say God says you 
 must do this and that. If it were to strike or 
 not to strike one might obey; but when it is 
 one s feelings that are ordered about, why, they 
 simply cannot be ordered about. There, that is 
 truth." 
 
 14
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "It sometimes seems to me," said Cecca, still 
 stern, "that one can love the truth too much. 
 One can make it into a sort of idol and worship 
 it. There are truths and truths. Some can be 
 brought into the light of day and do men good, 
 and others ought to be put into coffins and laid 
 in the dark." 
 
 "If one did, their ghosts would walk." 
 
 Cecca "made horns" again, and then sweeping 
 forward and downward a forefinger, that in 
 dicated Dione s figure from head to feet: 
 
 "Tousetta," said she, "you are so young that 
 you think wisdom twinned at your birth, but, 
 listen well, some day one of these truths that 
 you are so fond of will eat you whole." 
 
 One might die a worse death than to be eaten 
 by truth," said Dione. 
 
 "Eh, but perhaps one doesn t die. Perhaps 
 one just stays alive in its maw and suffers." 
 
 "Cecca mia, nothing in the world can keep me 
 from seeking the truth, and speaking the truth, 
 and seeing the truth. That was one thing that 
 my father taught me among others, and I also 
 think that I was born with it already in me." 
 
 "You were born very obstinate, as God knows 
 and the poor balia who tried to wean you. What 
 that poor woman suffered! . . . wormwood 
 would not do. I had to put powder of quinine 
 on her breast before you would give up." 
 
 Dione looked at her thoughtfully. 
 15
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I have always been so glad that my mother 
 did not nurse me," she then said. "And that is 
 another truth for you." 
 
 Cecca returned her gaze severely. 
 
 "You are in a little devil s mood to-day, and 
 that is a truth for you," said she. "And I have 
 some more truths to tell you about truth which 
 it will be very good for you to listen to. Too 
 much truth, my dear, is like too much wine. 
 First it goes to one s head and then to one s en 
 trails, and then it turns into poison and poisons 
 one. Yes, my dear, the Lord God is the only 
 One who can afford to see and hear and speak 
 the whole truth, for He is almighty, and if truth 
 gets too strong He can set His foot upon it. Not 
 even the devil himself (she made horns again) 
 can afford to tell all the truth, because if he did 
 he would have to say that it distressed him to 
 be in hell, and then all the devilkins and witches 
 would turn upon him and tear him to pieces for 
 a turncoat. Ecco! There are some truths that 
 I ll wager you did not know before." 
 
 Dione almost never laughed and rarely smiled, 
 or she would have done both at that moment. 
 She only looked affectionately at her old nurse 
 as she ended her philosophical tirade, and said 
 Ciao ! that elastic dialect word which is some 
 thing like the German bitte in its comprehen 
 siveness. It may signify "Good-bye," or "How 
 d ye do?" or "There s an end of it," or "I can t 
 
 16
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 help it," or "The Lord s will be done," or "Take 
 it or leave it"- and a dozen more things beside. 
 "Eh, ciaoT said Dione. "Now that you have 
 said what was on your mind, you will be nice to 
 me. And I am glad, for there is a thing that I 
 want you to tell me very much. Why have you 
 written those strange words over your door, 
 Cecca mia?"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 CECCA paused in her work, and a strange, 
 inward look came over her face. Then she 
 crossed herself rapidly, made the usual sign 
 against evil, and, resting both hands, palm down, 
 upon the table, gazed at Dione. 
 
 "Eh, Gioia," said she, "that is altogether a 
 different tale from the tale of the Concordia. 
 ... It has to do with a stregascia. ..." She 
 paused again. Perhaps you laugh, eh ?" 
 
 "No. ... I find very few things to laugh at. 
 It seems to me that with most people laughing is 
 like sneezing a sort of spasm without reason. 
 I have no cause to laugh at you, Cecca. You 
 know that I believe in many things myself at 
 which other folk would laugh." 
 
 "Eh, truly," said Cecca, "the way that my 
 milk and honey take legs to themselves and walk 
 off, so to speak, would vex many a housewife. 
 It seems strange that those sciori of yours that 
 one can t see should be so fond of milk and 
 honey." 
 
 "It is an old custom, and it pleases me to offer 
 the wood-gods milk and honey for fair weather 
 
 18
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 right in the face of the Church. Evoe! Wood- 
 gods, I say, I bring you fair milk and honey and 
 little wheaten-cakes : grant that the mareng 
 (the sirocco) be blown flat to-day by the mag- 
 gior. And all the while the bells of Ceredo and 
 San Maurizio are ringing, and no one there knows 
 that the old, forgotten gods are being invoked. 
 I find that very pleasant." 
 
 "And do they answer?" 
 
 "When they see fit," said Dione, gravely. 
 "Sometimes before I have set my feet upon the 
 ground, after climbing to lay the little leaf- 
 basket in the notch of a tree where none will see 
 it, yes. ... I have known the maggior to rise 
 even while I was in the tree." 
 
 Madonna mia /" breathed Cecca, awed. The 
 saints grant that there be no evil in it." 
 
 Dione smiled now, her slow, rare smile, and 
 her strange face became beautiful. 
 
 "There is no evil in it, cam," said she. "How 
 could there be evil in asking for fair weather? 
 Do not your priests do it ?" 
 
 "Surely; but then they ask it of God, and that 
 is very different." 
 
 "No," said Dione. "They do not ask it of 
 God. They ask it of Saint this, or Santa that, 
 or the Madonna, or one of the bambini. ..." 
 
 "Still," said Cecca, unconvinced, "it seems to 
 me a very dangerous custom." 
 
 "I am not afraid," said Dione, 
 19
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Not Afraid was eaten by an accident, my 
 dear." 
 
 "And accident is the only devil, though you 
 believe in one with horns and tail." 
 
 "Signer!" cried Cecca, and "made horns" 
 herself, with both hands, three times in rapid 
 succession. 
 
 "And now," said Dione, "tell me the tale of 
 the stregascia." 
 
 "Ciao," said Cecca, "but we will not name 
 her, my dear, though you know very well who 
 she is and see her often. It is not well to say 
 the name of a jettatrice (one with the evil eye) , 
 even if one makes the horns when one says it. 
 Ciao ... I will tell you. This woman is very 
 evil, my child. She is truly bolic. If one angers 
 her she throws it after one . . . and she has 
 great power. Ebbene! ... I angered her and 
 many things not at all good happened to me. 
 We will not speak of them now. But three 
 nights ago ... if you laugh at this I shall be 
 very angry indeed ..." 
 
 "I have not the least desire to laugh," said 
 Dione. 
 
 "Ciao . . . laugh or not, this is what took 
 place. I was lying quietly on my bed when I 
 hear a soft yet evil noise frrt , . . frrt / . . . I 
 cannot tell you why I knew that it was evil, but 
 I did know it. ... It is as when one falls in the 
 water and gets wet. One does not know by 
 
 20
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 reason that one is wet, one only knows well that 
 one is wet. And when one knows things that 
 way, my dear, they are true." 
 
 "I understand," said Dione. 
 
 "Well, Gioia, this evil thing I took at first to 
 be a bat flitting about my room. . . . And just 
 as I was about to rise and get a cloth to strike at 
 it ... a little, greenish paring of moon slides 
 across my window . . . and / see that stregas- 
 cia, seated on a broom of twigs, going about and 
 about my room like a great bat of the Inferno ..." 
 
 Cecca stopped, and, wiping the perspiration 
 from her brow with the back of one hand, flung 
 aside the drops with a snapping gesture. 
 
 "Dio mio," said she, "I am bathed in cold 
 sweat just remembering it." 
 
 "It must have been terrible," assented Dione, 
 with sympathy. "What did you do ?" 
 
 I knew the right words to say, the Madonna 
 be praised, and I said them." 
 
 "Then? ..." 
 
 "Then away with her out of the window, 
 and I hear the vines crackling and the little 
 birds cheeping with terror where she crashed 
 through." 
 
 "So that is why 
 
 "Listen. Your grandfather, my dear, your 
 mother s father, was a wise old man. He had 
 many learned books on the subject of witches 
 and evil spirits of all sorts. Some of these I have. 
 
 21
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 And from one of them I got those words that are 
 written above my door. And since you like 
 truth so much, this tale should please you, for 
 it is true, every word." 
 
 "Thank you," said Dione. "It may be that 
 witches exist for those who believe in them. I 
 sometimes think that by believing in things we 
 make them exist." 
 
 Cecca pondered this for a moment. 
 
 "That is a strange belief," said she at last. 
 
 "Well, you know that you tell me I am 
 strange." 
 
 You were born with a caul, my dear. People 
 who are born with cauls are both strange and see 
 strange sights. I have that caul, my dear. It 
 is a thing of great power." 
 
 Dione sat gazing before her so intently that all 
 at once Cecca and the table and the little bundles 
 of herbs grew very small and receded in a bright 
 haze. Then she closed her eyes and opened them 
 very wide, as though coming out of a sleep. 
 
 Cecca, said she, did you want your children 
 before they came?" 
 
 " Santa Maria! What questions you ask!" 
 exclaimed her nurse. "Did I want them? 
 Should a cow and a goat and a cat want their 
 little ones, and a woman not want hers ? Surely 
 I wanted them." 
 
 "Were you afraid?" 
 
 "Afraid? . . . Mamma mia! ... No one wants 
 
 22
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 pain. But I was a brava tousa (a fine girl). I 
 had good health, and also I knew that a woman 
 who dies in childbirth goes straight to paradise." 
 
 "Did it hurt much?" 
 
 "Ukmatta!" (She s crazy!) cried Cecca. "Did 
 it hurt? . . . Did it hurt? ... Of course it 
 hurt. What would you? It s a fierce pain and 
 a fierce joy." 
 
 "I understand," said Dione, thoughtfully. "I 
 should like to have a child, and I should want 
 pain. I should not like to have a child as one 
 buys a doll from a shop, with no trouble at all. 
 Yes ... I should like to have a son ... a big, 
 strong boy, who w r ould grow to be a fine man and 
 take the world and play with it like a ball . . . 
 and do fine things with it." 
 
 "The Virgin hear her!" cried Cecca. "Never 
 was there such a girl-child born into the world ! 
 Why, even peasant girls would be shy of saying 
 such a thing plump out!" 
 
 "I do not see why," replied Dione. "I have 
 said nothing shameful. Of course, I should want 
 my son to be born honourably. I should want 
 him to inherit a good name and add honour to it. 
 I should want to love his father and be loved by 
 him. I am no thing of straw. I am a woman, 
 and I should want to love my man with all the 
 life that is in me." 
 
 Cecca gazed at her with great, considering 
 eyes, grown suddenly soft. 
 
 23
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "The Madonna send you a good husband, 
 Gioia mia," she said, finally, in a loving voice. 
 
 Dione laid her firm, beautifully chiselled hand 
 in her old nurse s outstretched palm with a strong 
 grasp. 
 
 I shall ask one of the great old-time gods to 
 do that," she said. "I have thought of it be 
 fore."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ! l a Peppa!" cried Cccca, suddenly, start- 
 ing to her feet. "There is the mamma 
 calling. ... By the sound of her voice she has 
 been calling a long time. . . . Vengo! Vengo! 
 . . . Am I tidy, Gioia? She may want me to 
 carry wine and cake to the sciori." 
 
 "Let me smooth your headkerchief a bit. 
 There . . . now you are as tidy as a wren." 
 
 Dione adjusted the gold pins in the white head- 
 kerchief with its printed border of nasturtiums, 
 pulled out the ends, and, taking Cecca s face in 
 her two hands, kissed her between the eyes. 
 
 Vengo ! Vengo / " (I come ! I come !) called 
 Cecca again, rushing toward the door. "Eh, 
 but she ll be in a fine rage with me!" 
 
 "Never mind," said Dione, consolingly. "It s 
 only like the popping of a rose-leaf on the back 
 of one s hand. It doesn t hurt." 
 
 As she was speaking, and Cecca reached the 
 door, it flew open, and Madame Rupin stood 
 quivering like a little snake on the threshold. 
 She darted forked words at her laggard servant. 
 
 "Snail! Deaf one!" said she. "It is a disgrace! 
 25
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ... an infamy! . . . Am I to shriek my throat 
 sore and run my feet off, and you here idling the 
 day away, and company in the parlor? . . . Ah! 
 And so there you are," stabbing a little white 
 finger with a black nail toward Dione. "There 
 you are in a dress like a peasant s, and Signora 
 Varoni and her son here for the first time, and 
 asking for you. Dio miol Dio mio! As if I 
 hadn t enough troubles to turn my eyebrows 
 gray without you two heaping them on me. 
 And the Varoning (the young Varoni) so elegant 
 and homme du monde in his English clothes. . . . 
 Yes, he is a real scior (gentleman) .... He sends 
 his shirts to England to be laundered ! . . . And 
 the Madonna only knows how much money 
 they have. . . . And you in that cotton shift! 
 And . . ." 
 
 "It s not a shift, mamma," said Dione; "it s a 
 very nice blouse and skirt. But I can change it 
 if you wish, though I don t think a boy who sends 
 his shirts to England to be washed is worth tak 
 ing much trouble for, since he must necessarily 
 be a fool." 
 
 "Oh, Madonna! Oh, Santa Anna! Give me 
 patience ! cried the exasperated mother. Was 
 there ever such a girl ? . . . Here I am, boiling 
 my brains to syrup night and day to find her a 
 husband, and she calls a man who has money 
 enough to send his shirts to England to be washed, 
 a fool! Oh, I shall smother! ... I shall burst!" 
 
 26
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 And she actually ripped open three buttons of 
 her bodice. 
 
 "Lassala bui!" (Let it boil!) Cecca had growled 
 at first, with one of her favorite expressions ; but 
 when she saw the spoiled child actually on the 
 way to tearing her silk gown she became the 
 soothing nurse again in an instant. 
 
 "A/a, na, cara," said she, wheedlingly. 
 "Don t hurt your pretty fingers like that and 
 spoil your pretty frock. Go back to the sciori 
 and talk nicely, and before you can wink I will 
 be there with the Marsala and almond-cakes, 
 and the little daughter will have on her white 
 linen and Venetian sash, and then who knows ? 
 . . . There may be a wedding before long. 
 Patience! patience! take your little mirror 
 and put a dust of powder on your little nose, for 
 it always shines, you know, when you get so 
 angry." 
 
 Madame Rupin let herself be coaxed and 
 powdered, and the drops of wrath whisked from 
 the corners of her eyes. Then when she was re 
 adjusted and calm, and Cecca had hurried off, 
 she turned to her tall and silent daughter, who 
 reminded her so irritatingly of her tall and silent 
 husband. 
 
 "Be sure," said she, "to pinch your cheeks be 
 fore you enter. It s absurd to have such a red 
 mouth in such a pale face. And puff out your 
 hair more in the fashion. You will find two side- 
 ay
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 combs on my dressing-table. Yes, and put on 
 your Venetian beads with the sash. It is cer 
 tainly a trial to a mother to have her daughter 
 look such a forestiera (foreigner), but at least 
 you can dress like an Italian girl when I have 
 guests. Yes, that you can do at least. . . . 
 So be quick, and carry out my instructions ex 
 actly." 
 
 With this she disappeared, and Dione, looking 
 after her, put her two arms above her head and 
 twisted her lithe body in a stretch of supreme 
 boredom, yawning deeply as she did so. 
 
 "I wonder," said she, aloud, with arms still 
 high above her head, "who sorts out the 
 mothers and daughters? I cannot say that it 
 seems to me they have much talent for their 
 task." 
 
 Then she let both arms drop about Masciett, 
 who had reared himself against her with both 
 paws on her chest. 
 
 " You are real, Mascietton," she said; "that is 
 why I like you." 
 
 And she squeezed him hard, and kissed him 
 between the eyes as she had kissed Cecca. 
 
 When the girl entered the salottino with her 
 lustrous wreath of black flamelets held out by 
 the side-combs which she had obediently used, 
 and her long, tapering limbs clothed in the pearly 
 texture of her gown, though her only ornaments 
 
 28
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 were the necklet of gold Venetian beads and the 
 saffron sash, the room seemed suddenly to grow 
 smaller and the people in it to dwindle. 
 
 "E molto distinta ..." murmured la Varoni, 
 aside, to her mother, and Madame Rupin under 
 stood perfectly that this was said because the 
 lady could use neither of the terms "beautiful" 
 or "simpatica" with a clear conscience. Pier 
 small nose began to shine, but she was comforted 
 at once by the evident impression that Dione was 
 making upon the son. 
 
 After Dione had done her stately duty, and 
 passed Marsala and almond-cakes to every one, 
 her mother took a sweet revenge on the Varoni 
 by saying, in a voice of honey : 
 
 "And now, Tesoro mio, you can show our old 
 garden to Signer Varoni, who has been admiring 
 it so much from the window." 
 
 La Varoni fanned herself a little quickly, but 
 the young man jumped to his feet with evident 
 delight. As he stood beside Dione his head just 
 topped her shoulder, and yet he was not so very 
 small. He was trim and dapper, and had nice 
 black eyes and little mustaches, and his clothes 
 were of the exaggeratedly smart type that Eng 
 lish tailors make for continentals. 
 
 "I shall be most charmed if the Signorina will 
 be so gracious," said he, and he made the neatest 
 of bows a la Milanese. 
 
 "But certainly. I will show it to you with 
 29
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 pleasure," replied Dione, thinking that he worked 
 as perfectly as a toy. 
 
 "Then may I open the door for you?" said he, 
 and held it while she and Masciett passed through. 
 
 "These plants, growing in beds about the palm- 
 trees," said Dione, beginning her task conscien 
 tiously, "are herbs of various sorts. This is a 
 rather curious one ; it is called erba capone. Will 
 you smell a piece?" 
 
 She held out a sprig, and the young man bent 
 gallantly above her outstretched hand and 
 sniffed at it. 
 
 " Per bacco!" cried he, with an enlightened ex 
 pression. "It smells exactly like roast chicken. 
 That is very strange." 
 
 "Some people put it in salad," continued 
 Dione, "but I dislike it myself. I think it un 
 pleasant for a plant to smell like flesh." 
 
 "E vero," said the young man, looking still 
 more enlightened. "That is what I think also." 
 
 "This shrub , continued Dione, " is a purple mag 
 nolia. I forget the botanical name for it, though 
 my father taught it me, but it is not important." 
 
 "Not in the least!" exclaimed Varoni, enthusi 
 astically. Somehow it made her seem more 
 human and a little nearer, to know that she had 
 forgotten the Latin name. Her lashes were so 
 thick and so dark that he could not make out 
 the exact color of her eyes. 
 
 30
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "It is strange," he reflected, "that her eyes 
 are not large, and yet are very remarkable. They 
 give one a sensation." 
 
 Though why Dione s eyes should have given 
 young Varoni "a sensation" it is not easy to say, 
 for nothing could be more expressionless than 
 they when they happened to rest upon him. 
 
 Will you have one of these magnolia flowers ?" 
 she now asked, politely. "They are rare. Per 
 haps your Signora Mamma would be pleased 
 with it." 
 
 "Gladly! ... A thousand thanks!" he ex 
 claimed, and he took the large, unsentimental 
 flower from her finger-tips as though it had been 
 a violet and she had drawn it from her breast. 
 
 "This column," she went on, pausing beside it 
 a moment, "is very ancient. It was put here 
 by the Romans. Many people have wanted to 
 buy it, but my father would not sell it." 
 
 "He was right, truly!" cried Varoni. "It is 
 most interesting. Not beautiful, but interesting. 
 Interesting things appeal to me more even than 
 beautiful things. How is it with you, if I may 
 ask, Signorina?" 
 
 "I like both," said Dione. "And when they 
 are both at the same time, I like that best." 
 
 "Precisely! Exactly! . . . What a true re 
 mark. I think that you are something of a phi 
 losopher, Signorina." 
 
 Dione gazed at him for a moment, and he de- 
 Si
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 cided that her eyes were a smoky gray. Then 
 she said: "I was trying to see what there was 
 philosophical in my words, but I could not see 
 that there was anything." 
 
 "Modesty," returned Varoni, "is one of the 
 most gracious of all the virtues." 
 
 Dione looked at him again, but it was the 
 merest glance this time. She did not say any 
 thing more, and Varoni cast about in his mind for 
 suitable subjects of conversation with a young 
 girl, since, according to her mother s regretful ac 
 count before her appearance, she cared neither 
 for balls nor any of the gayeties usually so dear to 
 the hearts of most young women. Her long, 
 lissome walk was "going to his head," as he after 
 ward told a friend. With him it was th "coup 
 de foudre" from the first. That gait of hers, so 
 unlike the hippy, flurried walk of most Italian 
 women, had been the "coup de grace." 
 
 "It is so with us Italians," he had told his 
 English friend afterward. "We find a woman 
 simpatica, pretty, then all at once paf ! we are 
 in love with her, and all because she moves her 
 lips in a certain way, or has a special gesture with 
 her hair, or yes, once I had a friend who fell in 
 love with an American girl because she whistled 
 prettily from the throat!" 
 
 Dione, quite unconscious of the emotions that 
 she was stirring, walked along in silence because 
 she had nothing more to say just then. 
 
 32
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "How wonderful that old stone column !" burst 
 forth Varoni suddenly, in despair of a better sub 
 ject. "To think of its having been there in the 
 time of the Romans!" 
 
 Dione stopped to loosen her thin skirt from the 
 clutch of an agave plant. 
 
 "As for that," said she, "when one comes to 
 think of it, one stone is not more ancient than 
 another. There is a big one in the field there 
 which has a queer story." 
 
 "May I hear it ?" asked Varoni, a little dashed. 
 
 "Surely. One can read what is cut on it for 
 one s self." 
 
 "I beg you to tell it to me, Signorina." 
 
 "Very well. It lies on the land of a very ava 
 ricious old man, and before it was dug up and 
 turned as it now is, there were curious characters 
 and numbers cut on its face. The old man be 
 came convinced that treasure was hidden under 
 it, and so he sent for some learned people that he 
 knew, and they made out that the inscription 
 meant that it would be a good thing to move that 
 stone from its bed. It was a very, very big stone, 
 you must know." 
 
 "Well?" said Varoni. "I beg you to go on. 
 I am deeply interested." 
 
 So was the old man. He got many workmen 
 and gave them much money, and at last, be 
 hold ! there was the stone turned over on its side 
 upon the grass." 
 
 3 33
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Ebbene? Ebbenef" 
 
 "They found no treasure, but they found more 
 writing on the other side." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "That said, You did well to turn me. My side 
 ached. 1 I do not often laugh, but I laughed when 
 I heard that story, which is true," said Dione; 
 then at sight of the young man s face she laughed 
 again, and after a second he joined in. 
 
 It was a pity, he thought, as they went on, that 
 with such a laugh as that she should not indulge 
 oftener in mirth. And Dione s laughter was 
 really like what one might imagine the fluting of 
 Pan s pipes to be, as he tries them softly.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THEY had now reached the limit of the gar 
 den to the west, and Dione sat sidewise on 
 the low stone wall, and suddenly unclasping the 
 beads from about her throat, dropped them into 
 her lap. 
 
 "I do not like things round my neck. They 
 annoy me," she said, in answer to Varoni s un 
 conscious look of surprise ; then, still mindful of 
 her role of cicerone : " I believe that this is one of 
 the finest views of Lago Maggiore. You say that 
 you have never been here before. Well, that is 
 Monte Rosa to the northwest, and to the south is 
 Angera, and those are the Borromean Islands, and 
 that mountain opposite is called the Sasso di Ferro. 
 And that is Baveno, where you see the white scar 
 of the quarries, and Pallanza is there below us." 
 
 "Magnificent!" said Varoni. "It is like a 
 beautiful postal card." 
 
 Dione gloomed at him for a second, then she 
 said to herself, "Of what use being angry with 
 a fool?" and merely observed: 
 
 "No. I do not think that it is like a postal 
 card." 
 
 35
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "But there are very beautiful postal cards, 
 Signorina," persisted he, eagerly, feeling some 
 how that she was not pleased. "Perhaps you 
 have never seen the kind I mean. They are 
 painted by hand, by various artists. I have a 
 friend in Milan who has a remarkable collection." 
 
 "Still," said Dione, "I do not think that it can 
 be like a postal card." 
 
 Her tone was final, and the young man was 
 silent, wishing that the unfortunate simile had 
 not occurred to him. 
 
 "What an immensity of water," he ventured, 
 presently, feeling that this could not be offensive. 
 
 "Yes," said Dione, "it is a large lake. I be 
 lieve it is called Maggiore for that reason." 
 
 And she did not mean to be disagreeable. 
 
 It was near the sunset hour, and air and water 
 sheened with the delicate tinting of a rainbow s 
 double. 
 
 Into this gentle loveliness the Sasso di Ferro 
 (the Stone of Iron Pan s Mountain, as Dione 
 called it to herself) shouldered up, like a grim 
 fact into a dream. From Laveno came the liquid 
 note of bells, melting, mingling, fainting out along 
 the silver line of the inverna, that had risen late 
 and would soon be fast asleep again. Then 
 would flow the little intragnola, the mountain 
 breeze, all scented with the dew of woodland 
 mold and new-cut grass and wild flowers. 
 
 "Like a postal card!" thought Dione. "He 
 36
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 should go to England with his laundry and learn 
 something. But, then, I must be polite to him, 
 even if he is a goose." 
 
 "I believe that you Milanese usually go to 
 Varese in the summer, do you not?" she asked, 
 in order to say something. 
 
 "Yes. Varese is very chic," said Varoni 
 very gay. But this summer a friend of ours 
 an Englishman who has been visiting us in Milan 
 told my mother that she should really visit 
 Lago Maggiore that it was, so to speak, a duty. 
 So we came." 
 
 "You are very obedient to that Englishman, 
 are you not ?" said Dione, and she smiled for the 
 second time that day. Varoni at that moment 
 forgave her all her snubbing. 
 
 "He is one to be obeyed, truly," said he, smil 
 ing in return. He has that way with him. He 
 has many ways with him. But, then, you will 
 probably see for yourself, Signorina. The mamma 
 was talking with Signora Rupin about lodgings 
 for him. He wishes to come to a little mountain 
 village not too far from the lake. And your 
 Signora Mamma said that Ceredo there" (he 
 pointed upward) "would be just the place for 
 him. He is a poet ... a very great young 
 poet, I assure you. And he has not long hair, 
 but looks like an athlete, and does not pose at 
 all, but is very merry and good company and 
 simpatico. At present he is reading in the 
 
 37
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Ambrosiana, for he wishes to write a great drama 
 about Leonardo. And there is a wonderful book 
 of Leonardo s in that library so he tells me. 
 Then, you see, when he has read all that he wishes 
 he will come here and write." 
 
 He paused for breath, and Dione, fixing on him 
 her grave eyes, now full of expression, said, 
 "What is his name?" 
 
 "His name is Alaric Kent." Varoni pro 
 nounced it "Alareec." 
 
 "It is a very pretty name," said Dione. 
 
 "Yes. Alaric one might call pretty. But 
 Kent do you not think it a little abrupt?" 
 ventured he, somewhat timidly. 
 
 It comes like a full-stop like a sort of ital 
 ics. I like it," said Dione. 
 
 "Well, that is very pleasant. I hope that you 
 will like him, too." 
 
 T do not like many people, said Dione. It 
 is a fault." 
 
 "But not at all truly!" exclaimed Varoni. 
 "It is much more valuable when one is liked by 
 some one who does not like many." 
 
 "That is true," said Dione. 
 
 She was so little aware of him that she did not 
 observe the sentimental look in his kindly black 
 eyes. He was not discouraged. In his code of 
 ethics it was quite fitting and eminently proper 
 that young girls should be difficult and unrespon 
 sive. And, after all, she liked something that he 
 
 38
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 had said to her. She liked his friend s name. 
 This encouraged him to pursue the subject. 
 
 "My friend Kent won cups for rowing at Ox 
 ford as well as for mental qualities," he con 
 tinued. "He is what they call an all -round 
 man in England that is to say, a man of many 
 qualities. And he is as good a swordsman as any 
 Italian. That is very rare." 
 
 "Yes," said Dione, "a man should be a man, 
 even if he is a poet." 
 
 This seemed a rather decided sentiment for a 
 young girl, but somehow Varoni liked it. 
 
 "I am a good swordsman myself," said he, 
 with the naivete of a child. 
 
 "As good as he?" asked Dione. 
 
 Varoni flushed. 
 
 "To tell the truth, I am not," said he, and 
 Dione liked him for the first time, despite his be 
 ing a "goose." 
 
 "I dare say," she said, gently, "from what you 
 tell me, that others may do things very excel 
 lently indeed, only that your friend does them 
 better." 
 
 "Precisely," said Varoni, giving her a grateful 
 look. "He is truly a most unusual being." 
 
 "What sort of things does he write?" 
 
 Poems poems full of life and joy. They are 
 mad about him in England. They say that the 
 old Greek fire burns in him, and that he is modern 
 most modern also. And our own poets think 
 
 39
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 well of him, too. They all say that he is very 
 gifted." 
 
 "And is he very young?" 
 
 "He is twenty-seven years old, but he looks 
 younger." 
 
 "And is he ugly?" 
 
 "No! Ugly ? Why ugly? He is a splendid 
 man. Very fair. He looks Greek, as so many 
 English do." 
 
 "I only thought," said Dione, "that he must 
 have some failing." 
 
 "Truly, I think not," said little Varoni, and 
 then all at once it occurred to him that these ar 
 dent eulogies of his remarkable friend were not 
 the best means to further his own cause. He felt 
 crestfallen and looked it, for his was a limpid 
 nature. 
 
 Quickly Dione read what was passing in his 
 little mind as though his brow had been trans 
 parent, though she was quite unaware of the ex 
 tent to which she had engaged his interest. Be 
 ing of a kindly nature herself, she now said, 
 though there was much more that she would have 
 liked to hear about the marvellous English 
 man: 
 
 "After all, perfect people are not very amus 
 ing to talk about. Where there are no shadows 
 there is no interest. Fancy the world without 
 shadows." 
 
 "What an original thought!" said Varoni. 
 40
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Despite her will, Dione s black brows drew to 
 gether. Then she said, amiably: 
 
 "Do the people in Varese ever sail or row on 
 the lake?" 
 
 Somewhat bewildered by the sudden change 
 of subject, Varoni replied, dubiously: 
 
 " I do not think that they ever go to the Lake 
 of Varese at all." 
 
 "It is strange," said Dione, "how few Italians 
 care for the water. Look at our lake there" 
 she swept both hands toward it. "One little 
 monotipo came out for the tramontane, this morn 
 ing only one. And now that the intragnola is 
 rising, and it is the loveliest hour of all, there is 
 not a sail in sight except the great square sail of 
 that old barca that is carrying bricks to Ghiffa, 
 with its clumsy rudder made of a bent tree just 
 as in the time of the Romans, and perhaps even 
 before." 
 
 This was a long speech for Dione, and Varoni 
 listened deferentially, thinking how well she 
 talked, but afraid to say so lest her very sensi 
 tive modesty, as he considered it, should take 
 alarm. 
 
 "I had never thought of it, but it is perfectly 
 true," he observed, when she had finished; then 
 added: "Do you read much, if I may ask, 
 Signorina?" 
 
 "I read yes. Not so very much. I like 
 mythology." 
 
 41
 
 "That is a very original taste," said Varoni, 
 politely, "but I meant novels, romances." 
 
 Then, suddenly remembering the usual trend 
 of French and Italian novels, he supplemented, 
 hastily: "/ Promessi Sposi is considered a great 
 novel by all nations." 
 
 "Yes. But it is too far off. I like to hear of 
 things that happen about one." 
 
 "Yet, Signorina mythology?" he ventured. 
 
 "That is different. It does not seem far off to 
 me." 
 
 "That is curious," said the young man, lamely. 
 
 "I cannot explain," said Dione. 
 
 There was silence for a few moments. Then 
 Varoni ventured again. 
 
 li Le Roman d un Jeune Homme Pauvre is a very 
 pretty romance. Have you read that?" 
 
 "I began it," said Dione. 
 
 He did not ask whether she had finished it, 
 as her tone was expressive. The necessity for 
 speech, however, impelled him to go on with his 
 list. 
 
 "Picciola is a charming book, I think. You 
 liked that, did you not?" 
 
 "I read it so long ago," said Dione, wearily. 
 She slipped down from the wall as the first per 
 fumed puff of the intragnola struck her cheek. 
 
 "We must return," she explained. "Signora 
 Varoni will think that we have got lost." 
 
 But there must be some romance that pleased 
 42
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 you, Signorina," persisted he, as they began to 
 walk again toward the house. That pretty tale 
 of Graziella?" 
 
 "I never read it," said Dione. "I do not 
 think that I care much for novels. // Fuoco in 
 terested me at first. But then I did not like it. 
 It seemed to me to have the odor of a sick-room 
 where there is fever. I " 
 
 "You have read // Fuoco, Signorina?" gasped 
 Varoni. "But surely . . . but surely ..." 
 
 "I am afraid that I should shock you very 
 much if you knew me better, Signer Varoni. 
 But you must not blame my mamma. It was 
 my father who educated me." 
 
 Pardon me. I have made you angry. I feel 
 it a great misfortune." 
 
 "You have not made me angry, but I am tired, 
 and when I am tired I am apt to say what I feel 
 too bluntly. I do not think that I was meant 
 for society. That is all." 
 
 "But, Signorina! . . . But allow me . . ." 
 
 "Do not let us say any more about it, if you 
 please," said Dione, now thoroughly worn out. 
 "I know very well that Italian girls are not sup 
 posed to have any ears or eyes or brains until 
 after they are married. It is great nonsense. 
 But what will you ? It is a custom. And cus 
 toms are what most people live by. Do you 
 wonder that most people are silly ? Here is the 
 house. And here is another magnolia flower for 
 
 43
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 the Signora Mamma. I hope that I have not 
 offended you in my turn." 
 
 "Signorina!" was all that the poor Varoning 
 could say before his mother and Dione s came to 
 meet them.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT was nine o clock at night. Madame Rupin 
 had gone to an Illuminazione in Intra, and 
 Dione and Cecca were walking down the moun 
 tain-side toward Ghiffa, a basket between them, 
 in which were three magnolia leaves folded 
 neatly into a little cup and filled with cream and 
 honey, a small fiasco of red wine, and over all a 
 fair linen cloth. 
 
 Above them the gauzy sky drooped low as 
 though heavy with its embroidery of stars; the 
 planets deeply gold and still, the lesser lights of 
 flower-lilac, and frost-blue, and firefly-green, 
 darting spikelets, seeming to shut and open like 
 strange blossoms of the air; the fields of sky 
 palpitated with them as a field of earth when the 
 bees are questing. 
 
 "I used to think," said Dione, looking up at 
 them, "when I was very little that the stars were 
 holes in the heaven, and that the gods and god 
 desses, running on their pleasure, shut out the 
 light and let it shine through again with their 
 twinkling feet." 
 
 "Perhaps the angels really do so," said Cecca. 
 45
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "But the stars are not holes they are worlds." 
 
 "So I have heard tell," said Cecca, in a tone 
 that evinced how little she believed in hearsay. 
 
 They now passed into a thick wood of oak and 
 chestnut, and Masciett began scouting in great 
 loops and circles among the underbrush. 
 
 "See him!" said Dione. "He looks like a 
 ghost-wolf in this light." 
 
 "Psst!" whispered Cecca, crossing herself. 
 Do not say such things . Have you never heard 
 of the werewolf ? An Austrian girl told me of it 
 when I was young. It is an evil spirit that takes 
 the form of a wolf. On such an errand as we are 
 going I do not like to hear such things." 
 
 "I am not afraid," said Dione. 
 
 "Yes, that is what you always say. Once you 
 are made afraid, you will not say it so often." 
 
 "I do not think that I shall ever be afraid," re 
 plied Dione. 
 
 "Well, the saints grant it." 
 
 The wood grew darker, then thinned. Through 
 the dim light, just across their path, a dark thing 
 leaped. 
 
 "What a big hare!" cried Dione. 
 
 Cecca was crossing herself, and muttering min 
 gled prayers and invocations. 
 
 "It is an evil omen. I fear the saints are 
 against this errand of yours." 
 
 "There is no evil in my errand," said Dione. 
 
 "Ay, but you are praying to strange powers." 
 46
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I do not pray I only ask." 
 
 "It is the same," said Cecca. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Dione. 
 
 "It is precisely the same. Now, give me all 
 the basket to carry. It is ridiculous that my 
 young sciora should help carry a basket." 
 
 "No. I like to help carry it." 
 
 "You are obstinate, as I ve said." 
 
 "And what are you?" 
 
 "Very well," said Cecca; "we will not pull a 
 good basket in two just because you have a pig 
 headed mood on." 
 
 Directly above them a little mountain-owl 
 uttered its tremulous, wild cry. 
 
 "Signer!" breathed Cecca, again crossing her 
 self. "This night is full of omens. It does not 
 please me at all." 
 
 "Why, it is only a little fluffy owl," said 
 Dione, unconscious that she was quoting Shel 
 ley. 
 
 "Ay, and the seed of evil in the heart of man is 
 little, but it is also mighty." 
 
 "That owl would cry whether we were passing 
 or not." 
 
 "Yet it is strange that it should cry just as we 
 pass." 
 
 "I cannot see that it is," said Dione. 
 
 "Then you have slices of salami on the eyes of 
 your heart," returned Cecca, with one of her 
 favorite expressions. 
 
 47
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "And you," said Dione, "look for the hair in 
 a new-laid egg." 
 
 Cecca hunched her shoulders, and they passed 
 out of the wood into a vineyard. Cecca made 
 Dione keep to the path while she walked beside 
 her on the flowery grass. Its crushed wetness 
 came up to them in sweet whiffs. 
 
 "How I love being abroad at night!" said 
 Dione. "The air is so much purer when others 
 are not breathing it in and out. And then all 
 things seem to have a secret to tell. Hush! the 
 little winds seem saying. Hush listen there 
 is a great secret keep very still and we will 
 tell it to you. " 
 
 "And when you keep very still, are you told 
 this secret?" 
 
 "No. It is too great to tell, after all. But 
 they would like to tell it, and I would like to 
 hear, and that is much." 
 
 "That is just nonsense, it seems to me," said 
 Cecca, who was getting irritable under the stress 
 of mystery that she felt pressing in upon her. 
 
 "Yes. It would naturally seem so to others. 
 I do not know why I mentioned it." 
 
 "Well, at least here we are at the ravine," re 
 torted Cecca, "and that is half-way down. The 
 Madonna be praised!" 
 
 They sat for a few moments on a slab of rock 
 at its edge, and looked down into the great 
 wooded cleft. Below them the dark tops of the 
 
 48
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 chestnut-trees clung like heavy clouds to its 
 sides, and the deep drumming of water came up 
 to them. From lip to lip it was filled with a 
 white vapor. 
 
 "It looks like a big iron pot full of whipped 
 cream," said Cecca. 
 
 "It looks more like a witch s cauldron full of 
 steam," said Dione. 
 
 "Santa Maria!" exclaimed Cecca, really angry 
 and getting to her feet, "if you were a bimba I 
 would give you a pair of slaps that would set your 
 ears ringing ! . . . You say those things just be 
 cause you know I dislike them, and it shows that 
 you have a bad disposition. I should have been 
 more severe with you when you were little, and 
 then you would have respected me more at 
 present." 
 
 "Dear Cecca," said Dione, clasping her unwill 
 ing neck with a white arm as strong as a boy s, 
 and forcing the brown cheek against her own, 
 "do not be angry. I spoke thoughtlessly not 
 in order to vex you, truly." 
 
 " Viva Dio!" said Cecca, at once mollified. 
 "All is well, then. But unhook this sweet little 
 arm of yours, for you are choking me." 
 
 "It is because I love you I do not love any 
 one else, I believe." 
 
 "And so do I love you. But it is better to live 
 for love than to be choked for love, Tesoro mio. 
 Come, let us go on. It is a long row to the Sasso, 
 4 49
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 and the mamma will be returning shortly after 
 midnight." 
 
 They continued their way, stepping softly down 
 the steep, crooked little street of Susello, already 
 abed with candles out, save in one or two houses. 
 But softly as they trod, the village curs sniffed 
 them out and rushed yapping to windows and 
 garden walls. In one room a woman was trounc 
 ing a naughty child, and the babbo standing by 
 and remonstrating weakly. 
 
 "Hear him," said Dione. "That is the great 
 passion of our Italian men their children 
 though the foreigners write books and say that 
 it is women." 
 
 "Yes, the fathers are mothers also with us, 
 and it is the best good in our men. Hark! He 
 has taken away the child. He won t have him 
 beaten any more." 
 
 The little one s snuffling sobs of assuagement, 
 coming evidently from the refuge of its father s 
 breast and muffled in his neck, followed them 
 down the street. Then they turned, passed the 
 quaint old church, and barking and sobbing died 
 away. 
 
 But before they began the long descent to San 
 Maurizio they paused for a moment, arrested by 
 the grim majesty of the Sasso di Ferro, as it 
 reared its dark cowl among the stars, silent, stu 
 pendous, uninhabited by men, the haunt of 
 eagles, its roots of twisted stone striking down 
 
 50
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 to waters that had never been fathomed, its vast 
 folds wimpling on one side toward Laveno, like 
 the hide of some prehistoric monster too loose for 
 its gaunt bones ; its horned snout jutted toward 
 Luino, as though scenting some prey for which 
 it need not hasten, but which would come by 
 destiny into its jaws. 
 
 "E diabolical" whispered Cecca, shuddering. 
 I feel its powers even here. I do not think that 
 I can let you go to that baleful mountain in the 
 night-time. I fear that ill might come to you." 
 
 "It is not baleful," said Dione. "It is only 
 apart and clean from men, and very austere. It 
 is Pan s Mountain. It is the one place that he 
 has left on this lovely lake, which was once all 
 his the one place where men cannot build and 
 breed, and which they cannot sully with their 
 stupid laughings and weepings and little pinch 
 beck sins and virtues. The iron road goes 
 through its entrails, but the trains flash back and 
 forth so quickly that it is no more than a darting 
 pain in the entrails of a beast. It is Pan s beast 
 Pan s shaggy monster. He caresses its rough 
 sides, and sleeps against its haunch, and when 
 none are within hearing he plays god-music upon 
 his pipes of reed, and only the passer a solitaria 
 (the little lonely bird) pipes back to him; for be 
 sides her there are no song-birds that nest there, 
 only great eagles with rusty wings and crooked, 
 well-sharpened beaks. Evoe, Pan! Pan! Pan!
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ended the girl, lifting up her voice in a great, 
 clear cry. 
 
 Cecca seized her arm, and shook her to and fro 
 sharply, as when she had been a naughty child. 
 
 "Silence!" said she. "Do you want folk to 
 think that there is a madwoman loose on the 
 mountains and come after us with torches? 
 Madonna mia! are you not afraid to shout the 
 name of your pagan gods in the very face of Holy 
 Church, and the cemetery of San Maurizio to be 
 passed in a few moments? Do you make that 
 noise again I shall dump the basket over this 
 wall, and not another step forward will I take 
 with you this night." 
 
 "Cecca," said Dione, soberly, smoothing back 
 her sleeve where her nurse s vehement fingers had 
 creased it, "you are just as bad as I am. You 
 believe in witches and throw spells against them, 
 and you know that the Church forbids you to 
 have anything to do with witches whatever." 
 
 "Oh, that you were little again and I had the 
 spanking of you!" was Cecca s only retort. 
 
 Then she started violently, as Dione, in her 
 turn, grasped the arm nearesther, saying, Look !" 
 
 "What is it? . . . What is it ?" gasped Cecca, 
 and she crossed and recrossed herself. 
 
 "Nothing to be afraid of," whispered the girl. 
 "Only Pan s torch coming up behind the Sasso. 
 See the glow from it, as from a town on fire! 
 Look, Cecca, look! ... Is it not wonderful!" 
 
 52
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 A deep saffron glow, soft but intense, was 
 spreading, spreading behind the horny crest of 
 the crouching mountain. It was as though the 
 dark scales of its hide emitted a steam of phos 
 phorus, or as though its silent breath was light 
 ed by inward fire. Through this great veil of 
 light the scattered stars that had not yet gone 
 out in it glittered delicately, as might sparks of 
 mica drifting against a sunset cloud. 
 
 Then, all at once, with the pang of a sudden 
 note of music, the clear rim of the moon stole up 
 against its edge, gently, stealthily, as though, in 
 some madcap prank of a girl-goddess, she would 
 catch the great god sleeping, and gild for him his 
 little goat feet before he woke to find her far be 
 yond his reach high in air above the rough husk 
 of the earth over which he ruled. 
 
 Up and up she crept, ever clearer, more brilliant. 
 
 Feel it ! " cried Dione. Feel the earth falling 
 forward through space with us. Do you see the 
 edge of the Sasso dip and dip in pulse-beats as it 
 turns with the turning of the earth." 
 
 "I feel that you are going mad," said Cecca, 
 fiercely, "and that I will be going mad also if I 
 stand here listening to you. That is what I feel. 
 So if you want any more help from me you will 
 just come down this hillside with me as fast^ as 
 your two feet can carry you. I am regretting 
 with a heavy heart that I ever let you coax me 
 into coming with you at all." 
 
 53
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "A/a, na, Cecca mia," murmured Dione, coax- 
 ingly, as they went down the hill together. 
 "Don t you know it s all just poetry that I m 
 feeling? I can t put it into a book, but I can 
 feel it in my blood, and who knows if that is not 
 even better ? If you read what I say in a book, 
 car a Cecca, you would say, Eh! What fine 
 poetry! But as you can only hear it from my 
 lips, you say, Madonna! What craziness ! Now 
 that is the whole truth, I assure you, Cecca mia." 
 
 "Well, that does not save you," growled Cecca, 
 "for I ve always held that poetry is a sort of 
 madness, and many sensible people hold the same 
 belief. So you had better be silent if you want 
 me to carry out this crazy errand with you at 
 least, till we have passed the cemetery." 
 
 "Very well, I will be silent," said Dione.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "THEY went under the silent portico of San 
 1 Maurizio, ivory and ebony in the just-risen 
 moonlight, along the twisting stone steps to the 
 highroad, past the cemetery, where, in one newly 
 built, pretentious, empty tomb, a light burned 
 all night long, and so down to the shore in 
 safety. 
 
 Ciao ! said Cecca. The Madonna be thank 
 ed. It is always a great test of my faith to pass 
 that cemetery." 
 
 The picturesque little hat factory of rubble, 
 that sat with its toes in the lake, was soon left be 
 hind, and a few yards more brought them to the 
 Osteria del Pcsce d Oro (Tavern of the Gold Fish), 
 in which lived Ping, the padrone and the guar 
 dian of Dione s rowboat. 
 
 They could see no light from the road where 
 they stood. 
 
 "Is it possible that lazy baloss (scamp) is abed 
 already perhaps drunk?" said Cecca. 
 
 "Da la vos" (Give the voice), said Dione, in 
 dialect. 
 
 "Ohe! . . . Ping! . . . Ping!" called Cecca. 
 55
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Avanti . . . Avanti, " came the prompt reply, 
 evidently from a full mouth. 
 
 "The pig!" growled Cecca. "He is eating at 
 this hour of the night, and drinking, too, I ll 
 wager." 
 
 She mounted the stone stair, banged open the 
 door with her open palm, and she and Dione en 
 tered the small, stuffy room. 
 
 Ping was seated on a backless carved chair 
 that had once ornamented the sala of some villa, 
 with a huge bowl of risotto and fish between his 
 knees, and a scarred, one-eyed, cynical-looking 
 cat on his shoulder. 
 
 The cat humped her back as they entered and 
 stood up in. a loop, with all four feet close to 
 gether and her tail stiff like a handle. 
 
 "Voglino star servitef" said Ping, with the 
 usual formula; then added, with a grin: " 
 molto furba (she s mighty cunning) . She thinks 
 you re coming to eat with me, and that there will 
 not be much left for her." 
 
 Then he caught sight of Dione. 
 
 "Scusi . . . scusi," said he, and, jumping up, 
 shrugged the cat onto the floor, and trundled 
 out two evil-looking stuffed chairs from a dark 
 corner. 
 
 "Thank you," said Dione, "we have not time 
 to sit down. I only want my boat." 
 
 "Instantly," said Ping, wiping his glistening 
 mouth on the back of his hand, and the back of 
 
 56
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 his hand on one of the chairs. "I come at 
 once." 
 
 "I am sorry to interrupt your supper," said 
 Dione. 
 
 "Niente, niente," replied he, cheerfully. "First 
 a mouthful of fresh air, then a mouthful of risotto. 
 It will taste all the better. But may I not give 
 the Sciora Dione a drop of wine ? I have some 
 excellent Chianti ..." 
 
 "Hear him!" said Cecca. "The very wine 
 would blush redder to hear you call it Chianti." 
 
 "But I assure you, Sciora Cecca, tis Chianti, 
 and of the best." 
 
 "Via!" said Cecca. "Do not add lie to lie, 
 but hurry with that boat for which the Signorina 
 is waiting." 
 
 "I come," said he, resignedly. 
 
 Ping, whose real name was Rodolfo, but who 
 had always been called "Ping," was decidedly a 
 baloss and a gypsy by nature if not by birth. 
 He was unmarried, and the Osteria del Pesce 
 d Oro would have fared badly if an old aunt of 
 his had not consented to act as padrona for a 
 small consideration how small only she and 
 Ping knew, for she was ashamed to tell it, even 
 as a grievance, and he was too astute. 
 
 He could stick to no regular occupation, but did 
 odd jobs about, as the mood took him, and was 
 at present acting as grave-digger at San Maurizio. 
 
 He was a small, wiry imp, with the head < 
 57
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Digger Indian, yet good-looking despite it, and, 
 though he had no lawful wife, it was said that the 
 little Pings would have filled a mammoth pin 
 cushion. He was, indeed, a man of "good 
 fortunes," of good-nature, of good wit, and of 
 absolutely no morals. 
 
 Cecca had vexed him about the so-called 
 Chianti, and as they went down the pebbly shore 
 he sought to get even with her. 
 
 "Eh, Mamma Cecca," said he, "do you not 
 know that your stregascia has been seen abroad 
 to-night? I wonder that you are afraid to be 
 out at this hour. Only this morning I made a 
 fine new broom of twigs, and behold! when I 
 went to sweep off the steps with it this evening 
 it was gone!" 
 
 "First of all," retorted Cecca, tartly, "I de 
 sire that you do not address me as Mamma. 
 The saints be praised I am no relation to you 
 whatever. In the second place, you are a busar- 
 don (a great liar), as all the world knows. You 
 sweep the steps ! . . . You would sweep the sky 
 with a witch s broom truly if the stars were ten- 
 lire pieces, and that is all the sweeping that you 
 would ever do!" 
 
 " Tis probable," said Ping, good-humoredly. 
 "La Peppa! What a fine sweeping that would 
 be to-night !" he added, glancing up at the glitter 
 ing sky as he got into his leaky little dingey to 
 go after the Am-pias-a-mi. 
 
 58
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ^ This name of Dione s boat was a real trial to 
 Cecca. A name in dialect was no name for a 
 "Sciora s" boat, she insisted, and suggested 
 "Duilio," or"Dandolo," or "Verbano," but in 
 vain. 
 
 " It-pleases-me is just the name for it, as it 
 does please me," Dione always replied. "And, 
 besides, no one else has a boat with that 
 name." 
 
 "I believe you, indeed," retorted Cecca, un 
 convinced. 
 
 The Am-pias-a-mi was a stout boat, safe in 
 all weathers, with seats for two rowers and 
 places for four in the stern. She was painted a 
 light-gray, with her name in white. Dione would 
 have dearly loved to have a sail-boat, but her 
 mother had shrieked at the idea, and even her 
 calm father had objected. He thought that 
 feminine lake, with its changeful humours and 
 gusts of hysteric passion, its sudden mountain 
 hail -storms and buffs of wind, coming no one 
 could tell whence or why, no place for a girl alone 
 to try her skill at sailing. So the Am-pias-a-mi 
 had been the compromise. 
 
 She was moored rather close in, and Ping s 
 voice, as he bent up and down, bailing her out (a 
 thing that he should have done that morning and 
 that filled Cecca with indignation) , came to them 
 clearly over the still water. 
 
 "Eh, Sciora Dione," said he, "when are you 
 59
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 going to let me row you to troll for lusc (pike) 
 again?" 
 
 "I don t know, Ping. I am tired of fishing for 
 lusc and getting none. I believe the fishermen 
 have drained the lake of fish, fishing, as they do, 
 in and out of season." 
 
 "Eh, but the lusc are too clever for them. 
 There has never yet been made the net that can 
 hold them surely. But it is true, Sciora, that 
 they seem to be getting scarce. I ve only caught 
 two myself so far." 
 
 Then he stood up to ease his back, and fell to 
 grinning as he rubbed it. 
 
 "Eh, but that was a big lusc they caught at 
 Intra this morning," said he. 
 
 What did it weigh ? Who caught it ?" asked 
 Dione, humouring him. She was as impatient 
 as Cecca, but she knew that to hurry Ping was 
 only to lose time. 
 
 "Three brave boys caught it with grapnels, it 
 was so big," returned he, grinning more widely 
 than ever. "It was swelled up like a barrel, and 
 it stank Madonna! how it stank!" 
 
 "Sciora, bid him be silent!" cried Cecca, out 
 raged. "It is that poor fioeu (lad), who was 
 drowned four days ago, that he is speaking of. 
 The Madonna pardon you for using her name in 
 that way, you bowelless ape!" she wound up, ad 
 dressing Ping. 
 
 "No, truly, Sciora Cecca, I meant no harm," 
 60
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 protested Ping, who really had not. "I wept 
 like a baby when the poor mother let out a shriek 
 that could have been heard at the Sasso, and fell 
 back like one dead on the hard stones. Do you 
 pardon me, Sciora Dione ? I have a rough tongue, 
 perhaps, but my heart is as soft as polenta." 
 
 "Certainly," said Dione, quite pale. "I am 
 sure that you meant no harm. But it is not well 
 to jest about such things. Please bring the boat 
 now, for I have no time to lose." 
 
 Ping rowed in, using one oar like a gondolier, 
 and they mounted upon the rough bancheita, 
 which looked exactly like one of those strange, 
 straddling insects called "devils darning-need 
 les." 
 
 Then Cecca threw in the red cushions which 
 she had carried over one arm, and Dione stepped 
 past Ping and took the oars. 
 
 "Good-night! . . . Good diversion, Sciora!" 
 called Ping after them. 
 
 Cecca only grunted, but Dione said: "Good 
 night, Ping, and thanks." 
 
 "Now, Gioia," said Cecca, when he had re- 
 entered the Osteria and closed the door, "you 
 are to row me, if you please, to that little clump 
 of trees under the Villa Ada, and leave me there 
 while you go on your wild errand. I will do 
 much for you, as I hope I have proved, but even 
 with you I will not row over to that bolic moun 
 tain in the dead of night." 
 
 61
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Very well," said Dione. "But had you not 
 rather go and see some friend in the village?" 
 
 "And let that witch s shawl-pin tell it all over 
 the place to-morrow how I left you to gad about 
 over Lago Maggiore by yourself? Mai pid!" 
 (Not much!) replied Cecca. "I have my knitting 
 and a book of good magic as well as a prayer- 
 book in my pocket, so I am well protected. And 
 with your leave I will take this cushion to sit on, 
 and then I shall have comfort also." 
 
 "Do exactly as you like, cara. A thousand 
 thanks to you for coming with me. Here we are 
 at the Villa Ada ! Leave the basket there on that 
 seat near me. Now . . . Have you both feet 
 well on the banchettaf Ebbene! Ciao! ... I 
 shall be back in about two hours." 
 
 "The Virgin take care of you," said Cecca, 
 making the sign of the cross over her. "Ciao, 
 Tesoro mio. See that you do nothing like magic, 
 as you have promised me." 
 
 "I shall do no magic truly, Cecca dear. In 
 deed, I know none to do." 
 
 "Ebbene, ciao ancora, and the Madonna go with 
 you." 
 
 Dione left her old nurse sitting under the clump 
 of acacias, and, fixing her course by the high 
 white wall of the lower terrace of the villa, began 
 to row toward the Sasso di Ferro.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 moon span high, like a golden quoit 
 1 asleep with speed. The lake was as still as 
 the breast of a woman who holds her breath un 
 der a kiss. From Stresa toward Locarno the 
 pearl-dust of the Milky Way swept in a vast bow. 
 The stars in the heavens and the stars of the 
 lights on Monterone and the lower hillsides quiv 
 ered as with one life in the gray veil of the night. 
 
 Looking up at the Villa Ada, Dione saw the 
 serried ivory columns of its tall eucalyptus-trees 
 gleaming in the moonlight. Its cypresses were 
 jets of darkness against the spangled air. Little 
 Ghiffa, to her right, glowed like a flight of fire 
 flies blown out along the water; to her left was 
 Intra, another swarm, strung into a necklace as 
 by a wanton child, then cast glimmering upon 
 the shore. 
 
 She turned and looked over her shoulder. 
 Dark, silent, menacing, promising, Pan s Moun 
 tain dozed upon its shadow, and this huge shadow 
 seemed to devour one-half of the whole splendo 
 of the lake. Across it one silver thread of light 
 ran taut It seemed to Dionc that she could hear 
 
 63
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 a sort of singing sound from this silver thread, as 
 from the string of a great wind-harp. 
 
 She rowed on and on. Now she seemed to 
 touch the edge of that grim shadow, but ever 
 it receded, and she rowed on and on. 
 
 The sky throbbed with constellations. Her 
 cules swung his glittering club across the zenith. 
 Beyond darted the diamond head of Draco. 
 Cygnus went wheeling to her left. She saw the 
 fiery crouch of Leo, the pale eyes of the Lynx, 
 Cassiopeia s golden chair tilting giddily, while 
 there, just over her own mountain, Ursa Major 
 reared himself, as though with blazing paws he 
 would box little Ceredo from the hilltop. 
 
 Dione, who so seldom smiled, smiled nervously 
 at this thought. 
 
 "Ecco!" said she to herself. "I must beware 
 of the real panic terror, for it is just a touch of 
 that very thing that I am beginning to feel." 
 
 It was a comfort to see Masciett there at her 
 feet, curled into a ball, with his tail swept across 
 his nose like a big white fox-brush. Thus he 
 always slept, like the half -wild creature that he 
 was. 
 
 And now she really touched the hem of the 
 shadow; she was entering it. Her teeth pressed 
 hard together, and a strange, cold, stinging feel 
 ing brushed her from head to foot. She turned 
 her head again. The gray scars on the mountain 
 side were opening and curving toward her. The 
 
 64
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 whole crest of the mountain tilted forward, 
 leaned heavily on the soft night a sleepy Titan [ 
 crushing the fair breast of the nymph that he 
 had captured. 
 
 She rowed on and on, steadily, with long, even 
 strokes, but her heart beat hard. 
 
 Now the shadow was all about her. The other 
 shore was faint, and far awaya little foam of 
 light upon the distance. Masciett growled in his 
 sleep a wolf s growl. Then she heard again 
 only the sound of her oars in the water. But 
 now she rowed more slowly. She knew how the 
 stone-roots of the mountain knuckled into great 
 gnarls and juts about its shore and again she 
 looked back across her shoulder. There, to her 
 right, was the towering slab of limestone that had 
 been rent from the Sasso s iron breast by some 
 spasm of Nature and hurled into the depths, to 
 stand upright as by a miracle. In vain had the 
 Austrians used it for a target in the wars of 
 the Italian independence. Scarred with cannon- 
 shot, split from crown to base, it still glowered 
 stanchly, erect, alert Pan s grim watch-dog. 
 
 She rested on her oars for a moment, and the 
 boat glided farther into the shadow with its own 
 impetus. The drops falling from the lifted 
 blades made the sound of water falling into a 
 we ll tanc . . . tone . . . tanc. But it was deeper 
 here than any well. She recalled how a 
 sail-boat had been capsized here once by the 
 3 65
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ricochetting gusts that dart from the Sasso when 
 the winds are high, and how the divers from 
 Genoa, who had been sent for to recover the 
 bodies of those drowned, had dived and dived in 
 vain, unable to reach any bottom because of the 
 cold and pressure of the water at those stark 
 depths. And the bodies were never found. Pan 
 kept what he once held. 
 
 She made another short stroke or two, then 
 held her breath and listened. The mountain 
 overbent her now. Its craggy base was only a 
 few yards off. In the dark caves and rifts she 
 could hear the chuckling, hollow clack of the 
 dark water. And she knew that huge leviathans 
 of rock crouched under her vast twisted limbs 
 and snouts of stone, nuzzling down into the 
 liquid blackness ; a humped back here and there, 
 and sometimes a fanged jaw with a gray tusk or 
 two just rippling the surface. 
 
 She shipped her oars and waited. There was 
 a slight, sliding grind. Her keel had grazed one 
 of the monster s backs. Up started Masciett 
 with his wolf-snarl. 
 
 "Sta quikt!" whispered Dione, and he lay down, 
 ears forward. Another muffled grating, a jar or 
 two, and the boat laid with her nose on the bleak 
 shore, fawningly as it were, like a thing waiting 
 for either a rebuff or a caress. 
 
 Dione sat perfectly still, and looked upward. 
 She was under a great half cavern of slabbed 
 
 66
 
 limestone. Above, a thick fell of hazel shrubs 
 matted the iron ribs of the mountain to its jagged 
 backbone, and there bristled sparse and stiff 
 against the sky like a wild-boar s mane. There 
 was absolutely no sound save that hollow, cluck 
 ing clack of water and the clear fluting of a crick 
 et, little guardian of the lighted hearths of men, 
 astray in the sinister gloom of Pan s Mountain. 
 
 The girl drew a deep breath, then stood up in 
 the softly heaving boat that seemed breathing 
 with another s breathing, and lifted the little 
 basket from the seat. She drew another breath, 
 another still, then sent up her strong young voice 
 in a clear cry : 
 
 11 Evoe! Pan! Pan! Pan!" 
 
 The dog started to his feet and stood rigid. 
 
 "Evoe! Pan! Pan! Pan!" cried Dione again. 
 Then once again: "Evoe! . . . Pan! . . . Pan! 
 . . . Pan!" 
 
 Utter stillness fell. Then suddenly, down from 
 the mountain crest, sheer down, through scrub 
 and hazel boughs, with the pattering noise of 
 little goat feet coming fast, a stone fell through 
 the darkness, fell and fell. 
 
 Masciett s scruff rose from collar to tail- 
 and, thrusting up his muzzle, he gave the quen 
 lous, wavering cry of the "Wolf at fault 
 
 "Sta quiti!" breathed Dione, fiercely, 
 thrust him back with her foot as he sot 
 
 come toward her, 
 
 67
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Sta HI" (Stay there!) she ordered. 
 
 He stood motionless, with head low, tail droop 
 ing, his ruff erect, his ears pricked forward like a 
 shape in snow. 
 
 Dione, with the basket on one arm, took the 
 painter of the boat in her other hand, and, poising 
 lightly on the bow, sprang ashore, using as 
 stepping-stones the wet knuckles of limestone 
 that glistened between her and the two-foot band 
 of shaley beach. Then she wound the painter 
 about a pointed rock and stood up. 
 
 The dog stayed like the stones about him. 
 The cricket had ceased its fluting. The other 
 shore was so far and dim that it seemed like those 
 tiny landscapes seen sometimes against the eye 
 lids as sleep is coming. 
 
 Dione set the basket upon a ledge and laid 
 aside the linen cloth. She took the little cup of 
 magnolia leaves, and, feeling along the surface 
 of the crag, set it in a narrow cleft. Then she 
 lifted the fiasco of red wine, and, with a deft turn 
 of her wrist, cast off the inch of olive-oil that 
 sealed it. 
 
 Masciett followed her every movement with 
 quivering eyes, but his body never stirred. 
 
 When she had done these things, Dione held 
 out her arms and cried again to Pan. 
 
 "Evoe, great Pan!" she cried. "See, I bring 
 thee offering of cream and honey, and I pour thee 
 libation of pure red wine. Bring home my mate 
 
 68
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 to me from among all other men, and grant that 
 our sons be strong and wise." 
 
 Then she turned the slender neck of the wine- 
 flask toward the earth, and the dark stream 
 poured out upon the rock, splashing back against 
 the hem of her white gown and across her instep. 
 
 "Evoe! Evoe, Pan!" she cried, as the wine 
 ran from her hand. Out of all the world, I alone 
 make thee libation. Grant my request." 
 
 Silence, utter and heavy: the still dog; the 
 ominous lift of rock above her ; the heaving boat ; 
 these were the same, yet there seemed a change 
 working. Something quickened in the dark air. 
 
 She felt her scalp tighten upon her head with 
 the lifting of her hair a rill as of cold-fire poured 
 down her limbs. Her heart seemed to open and 
 shut within her breast, like the wings of a resting 
 moth. She trembled, and at the same moment 
 the dog howled again. 
 
 With shaking hands she loosed the painter, 
 sprang into the boat, thrust off from shore. 
 The panic-terror had her. ... She seemed 
 see a dark shape stirring there on the crag above 
 her to hear the clattering of little hooves 
 
 among the stones. . . . She thought that a bar h 
 
 of laughter followed her She thought that 
 
 the cruelty of the old gods was in it. . . J 
 came a clear sound of piping, 
 strayed cricket? ... Was it the reed of Pan? 
 
 69
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 . . . Masciett pressed close, and licked her hands 
 and throat unrebuked. She held him tight, and 
 they shivered together. 
 
 Then mastering herself, shaking off the cling 
 ing terror as one shakes an evil insect from one s 
 hand, she stood erect again, and as the boat 
 glided out toward the shores where men built and 
 bred, she lifted up her voice once more, and hailed 
 the god who dwells alone. 
 
 "Evoe/ Pan! Pan! Pan!" she cried, and this 
 time Echo, the beloved of Pan, answered her, 
 so that the whole dark mountain throbbed to it, 
 and she went forward in her slight boat with 
 that once so mighty name falling in a sleet of 
 sound about her . Pan! Pan! Pan! .
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 KENT was striding, as with seven-league boots, 
 up the mountain-side toward Ceredo. The 
 blither his mood the faster he always walked, 
 and the peasants in San Maurizio and Susello 
 looked after the mat Inglese and grinned. "He 
 has been lunching and has probably tried grappa 
 with his wine for the first time," they decided. 
 
 "Yes, and it s a very good thing that he didn t 
 plunge into the lake for a swim on a full belly," 
 said the dwarf shoemaker, who was considered 
 a wise person. "That is what most of them do. 
 Ay, Santa Maria! haven t I seen three of em 
 drown with my own eyes from that foolishness, 
 and one poor devil with his wife calling to him 
 from the terrace of the Ghiffa Hotel please not 
 to make faces it frightened her. . . . And he 
 knotted up with cramp all the time, and dying 
 with every swallow of water. . , They are cer 
 tainly crazy the English. It is no superstition." 
 
 "No, it is certainly not a superstition," agreed 
 
 the others. 
 
 In the mean time Kent had swept throut 
 Susello, and was out among the vineyards, hat
 
 and coat tucked under arm and stick through 
 elbows behind him. His thin, blue cotton shirt 
 was open at the throat, his worn, white flannel 
 trousers rolled high from his ankles. He was 
 stockingless in the low cord shoes of the peasants 
 of the region, and dripping wet, and completely 
 happy. 
 
 In the pocket of his bundled coat there was a 
 well-digested sheaf of notes. He pressed it glee 
 fully against his side as he thought of it. In his 
 brain was an up-streaming shower of thought- 
 sparks, each ready to blaze into full being with 
 the first breath of the spirit that waited on him. 
 He looked down at the gleaming, swarming val 
 ley, and laughed; up at the black-blue of the 
 cloudless sky, and laughed again a joyful, sa 
 tiate laugh, that yet had in it no satiety. He 
 laughed because "it was so good to be alive, by 
 God!" and because it had occurred to him that 
 the sky was like the huge blue cup and the earth 
 like the glittering ball with which he would play 
 cup-and-ball in the good game of life. 
 
 Yes, he was completely happy, and he was not 
 in love, and, strangely enough for a poet, he con 
 sidered this the most gorgeous sort of happiness. 
 Being in love interfered with his work and set a 
 sort of mawkishness in his verse, as of honey that 
 has sugared and clogged. ... At least, such was 
 his opinion, and he was a very fair critic of his 
 own performance. Being happy in love, he 
 
 72
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 thought, was something like being a god drunk 
 on ambrosia one saw mentally double. Being 
 happy in a creative mood and out of love was 
 like being a god just exultant with sheer god 
 head. Besides, love had once singed his wing- 
 feathers to the bone. 
 
 His brow pinched into a scowl of pain for an 
 instant, and he wrenched his chin upward as 
 though loosening something from about his 
 throat. The sting passed. His sovereign mood 
 sucked out the poison like the staunch queen of 
 old. Up he strode toward Ceredo, a king tow 
 ard the happy hut of his incognito. 
 
 He rounded a hillside, and Monte Rosa leaped 
 at him in a shout of white. The lake reeled off 
 below, a bobbin of silver-blue flung from a star. 
 The green web of the forests, draped over cliff 
 and hollow, seemed to sway listlessly in the thick- 
 sweet breeze. 
 
 "One can feel the earth swing up here," 
 thought he. "What a glorious giddiness . . ." 
 
 He threw himself flat on the steaming grass, 
 and, setting chin on laced hands, gazed down into 
 the grape-gray gulfs of air. Then he drew in his 
 vision, and became absorbed in the swarming life 
 about him. It was like looking into the green 
 hair of Goddess Nature, tricked out with little 
 glistening, living ornaments. 
 
 A June beetle, more gorgeous than an emer 
 ald, and lacquered with brown-gold, made fool- 
 
 73
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ish attempts to walk with dignity along a supple 
 blade of grass. Ever he tried, and ever the blade 
 bent as he reached its tip, and stood him on his 
 silly, burnished head. 
 
 An ant, the color of cochineal, went up a weed 
 and down the other side, and up another and 
 down the other side, thus progressing in a straight 
 line, but defying Euclid, and not making it the 
 shortest way between two given points. 
 
 Silly soul, Kent said to her. And why do 
 you carry that great gauze wing in your jaws ? 
 . . . Gauze is not good to eat. . . . And the ant 
 queen doesn t wear gowns." 
 
 Then a small Italian katydid, opening its green 
 mouth on either side and showing a pink lining 
 like a fig s, fixed his attention. 
 
 "By Jove!" cried he, softly, after watching it 
 a moment. "It is doing its front hair, like a 
 woman!" 
 
 Slowly the "katy," with its oblong head and 
 pink-topaz eyes that looked impartially on either 
 side at once, took one of its long, blond antennae 
 in its little fore feet and drew it out to its full 
 length. It then waved it once or twice, and laid 
 it along its back as though satisfactorily smooth. 
 It next arranged the other antenna. It then con 
 sidered a moment, and, poising itself nicely on 
 some of its legs, curled up its oat-green body and 
 proceeded to clean it as a cat cleans hers. It 
 then stretched far out one hinged hind leg, drew 
 
 74
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 it musingly through its fig-like mouth, and 
 propped it up again. It went through this same 
 proceeding with the other. Then it chewed a 
 neat semicircle out of a young leaf of the vine on 
 which it was balanced, and vibrating the little 
 triangular cape of brown gauze just back of its 
 head, emitted a loud "chirring" noise which 
 lasted for about a minute. It then considered 
 again, and suddenly, with a violent burst of reso 
 lution, flew straight into Kent s interested face. 
 
 "Then you don t do it with your hind legs, 
 after all?" asked he, gently straddling it upon 
 the vine once more. "Lord! Lord! . . . What 
 a sense of humor went to your making, my small 
 green friend." 
 
 He lay on his face for a few minutes more, then 
 turned over and sprawled luxuriously, staring up 
 into the air until tiny globules of crystal seemed 
 to rise and rise before his eyes like the bubbles 
 in an enchanted and invisible goblet of wine. He 
 was so very happy that he had to dawdle. One 
 must not get to one s Ceredo and a summer of 
 brimming, golden work too soon. It is wisdom 
 to loiter on the way. It is the wisdom of all wis 
 dom to stay one s feet on the staircase of creative 
 
 joy. 
 
 "Scribble, scribble, scribble . . . scribble, 
 scribble, scribble," thought Kent, enjoying his 
 lonely, wise-foolishness to the last atom of his 
 blood. "I can see the little black lace of words 
 
 75
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 spinning out on the page now. . . . O man, but 
 it is a queer miracle you are, and as droll as the 
 little green grasshopper, to take your highest joy 
 in such a thing as that! And to think of the 
 chaps who dictate and thump things out on a 
 typewriter!" 
 
 With this he leaped to his feet again, and swung 
 on up the mountain. 
 
 Little Ceredo, among its fields, like a pretty, 
 pale girl with red hair and a green frock, he took 
 to his heart at once. His padrona was a slight, 
 dusky woman with the feathery, line-like eye 
 brows, and broad-lidded eyes set wide apart, that 
 one sees in Luini s frescoes. She spoke to him 
 with an unaccustomed tongue, in stilted Italian, 
 and showed him to his room with many gentle 
 excuses for its simplicity. Kent loved it and her 
 at once. He thanked her so enthusiastically that 
 her clear brown cheek flared like an autumn pear. 
 
 "E molto bravo molto simpatico," she told her 
 son when she went down again. "He is without 
 doubt a scior (gentleman)." 
 
 And Kent was saying to himself: 
 
 "I must pick up the dialect as fast as I can, to 
 talk with these delightful people. I can t stand 
 that peg-legged Italian they use. It s as if that 
 dear little soul were moving about me on gold 
 stilts." 
 
 For he had a passion for dialects, as coming 
 near to the bone and core of things, besides know- 
 
 76
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ing Italian almost as well as he did English. He 
 had spent the first ten years of his life in Florence 
 with his mother and a series of tutors, for he had 
 been a somewhat trying boy. Afterward there 
 had been a private school in England, and then 
 Oxford. Unlike most poets, he had graduated 
 with distinction from his University. 
 
 His little room, smelling of whitewash and 
 fresh linen, and opening onto a balcony arustle 
 with leaves, pleased him mightily. He stood and 
 smiled at the glazed print of the Virgin over his 
 bed. She was a hooded lady all in blue and 
 pink, with an aura of gold spikes from crown to 
 toe, and she stood with demure eyes, downcast, 
 balanced nicely upon the head of a little boy- 
 angel in a crescent that looked both hard and 
 sharp. 
 
 "I m sure that dear Luini person took this 
 from the head of her own bed to hang over mine," 
 mused he.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HE then went out upon the balcony, and saw 
 the mountain-side tumbling beneath him 
 to the lake, and, beyond, the implacable Stone 
 of Iron. 
 
 He gazed at it for some moments in silence. 
 Then he said aloud: 
 
 "Hail, Dante! . . . For that mountain was 
 surely made in your image, and in your likeness." 
 
 He swept the lake with his eyes: laughing 
 Stresa to the right, and the glistening Borromean 
 Isles drifting on the delicate water, like great 
 Brazilian beetles blown out from land. To the 
 left, Cannero Castle on yet another island, and 
 the already purpling peaks toward Switzerland. 
 Then his eyes came back to the Sasso. 
 
 "Salute!" said he. "You look like a Behe 
 moth dozing after a gorge of pterodactyls or 
 ichthyosaurs, or some of those grim fowls." 
 [Kent s knowledge of biology was of the haziest.] 
 "Or, no; the Behemoth was a sort of huge tapir, 
 I believe, and the other creatures reptiles" [this 
 much did come back to him]. "You are more 
 like Leviathan asleep for the time being, . . . 
 
 " 78
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Canst them draw out Leviathan with a hook? 
 ... or bore his jaw through with a thorn ? . 
 Will he make many supplications unto thee? 
 Will he speak soft words unto thee? Will he 
 make a covenant with thee? Wilt thou play 
 with him as with a bird ? Or wilt thou bind him 
 for thy maidens ? ... No, I should not like to 
 make a covenant with you. You would be apt 
 to open your stone jaws and crunch me whole 
 by way of keeping it. As for binding you for a 
 maiden, I should as soon think of giving her the 
 Minotaur to play with. . . . By Jove! You are 
 rather an overpowering vis-h-vis to breakfast and 
 lunch and dine with. I shall have to pour you 
 a propitiatory libation before I dare drink my 
 wine at meals, for this balcony is to be my dining- 
 room, O monster, even if I do have to sit with 
 the hind legs of my chair over the threshold." 
 
 He gazed at the mountain a while longer. 
 There seemed to float from it a silent force that 
 held him oddly. Then he ran down-stairs to con 
 sult his padrona and her big son Pedring about 
 the coming of his luggage. 
 
 "It started from Intra at a good hour this 
 morning, Signore," said Pedring. "It should be. 
 here at any moment." 
 
 And, in fact, as he was speaking, a cart with 
 a big gray horse hove in sight, and beside it a 
 stout, broad-backed woman, chattering shrilly 
 to the driver as she walked, doubled over be- 
 
 79
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 neath Kent s summer supply of books. These, 
 in their two oblong cases, she carried on her back 
 in a rectangular basket, such as the Indians of Ala 
 bama use for carrying kindling-wood and papooses. 
 
 Kent bestowed upon driver and woman tips 
 which agreed with their preconceived ideas of the 
 foolish generosity of the Inglesi. Then, with Ped- 
 ring s help, he got his belongings up-stairs, and 
 spent the afternoon in arranging his quarters. 
 The room that had been given him to sleep in 
 he turned into a study because of the balcony, 
 and the other, at the side of the house, he took 
 for his bedroom. He was very orderly at the be 
 ginning of a creative epoch, so it took him until 
 seven o clock to get settled. At that hour, upon 
 a little green table on the balcony, with the "hind 
 legs" of his chair, as he had foreseen, straddling 
 the threshold, he partook of a large bowl of pasta 
 asciutta al porno d oro, a salad of big green pep 
 pers and cucumbers, some gorgonzola, such as 
 one cannot get even in Milan, some cherries that 
 looked like little apples and smelled of honey, 
 and a bottle of the light, silken wine of Solcio, 
 which his padrona s brother sent her as a pres 
 ent every year. 
 
 "I drink to you, O Dark One," said he, gravely, 
 as he finished this excellent repast, lifting his 
 glass toward the Sasso. "Pray do not frown at 
 me like that. ... I will even make libation to 
 you, as I said." 
 
 80
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 And he flung out the last drops into the clear 
 air toward the mountain. 
 
 Then joyous, content, "friends" with himself 
 and all the world, atingle with the necessity for 
 movement, he lit his best beloved brier out of 
 eight, and, catching up his stick, went hatless out 
 into the dusk for one of those nocturnal prowls 
 dear to wood things and to poets. 
 
 He walked at random, striking out of the vil 
 lage and up the mountain-side, with a gay 
 "Buona sera" for every man, woman, child, and 
 cur that he met. Soon he was off the highroad. 
 The vineyard closed about him. The sweet pang 
 of crushed wild thyme and mint shot through his 
 nostrils. Then came a dizzying gush of honey 
 suckle. "Oh, you are like the breath of one s 
 first love! . . . You go sharp to one s head ..." 
 said he aloud, in the way he had. "Lord! 
 What a night ! . . . One w r ould think that Satan 
 invented Eden and not God. . . . Night, you 
 are a treacherous minx. . . . And when you come 
 with woodbine in your hair like this, you are 
 nothing less than the Scarlet Woman, with your 
 red gown seeming sober in the moonlight. ... I 
 don t like these little tingles in my blood. . . . 
 They presage evil. ... I won t look again at 
 that glow where the lady moon is coming up. . . . 
 The train of associations is too disastrous. . . . 
 I ll think in German, where the moon is he. 
 . . . Verily, I believe I m a little tipsy. ..." 
 6 81
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 And he stopped to knock out his pipe against 
 a stone wall, and laughed softly at the idea, for 
 his head was metal where wine was concerned. 
 
 As he pocketed his pipe, and looked up, the 
 wall itself took his attention ; it was so high, so 
 old, so moss-and-wild-flower grown such plumy, 
 caressing foliage waved over its gray top. 
 
 "I ll climb you!" said he. "There! . . . You 
 dared me to, you know. ..." And he was on 
 the other side. 
 
 Though the moon -glow quickened the dark 
 air, he could see but dimly where he was. Cool 
 leaves slapped his face with a trick as of provoca 
 tive, light finger- touches, little supple branches 
 sprang against him, a great festoon of honey 
 suckle caught him across the lips. He kissed at 
 it, laughing again. "Musky wanton!" said he. 
 
 Then he won through into a little glade, and, 
 as the breeze veered, heard the vibrant sound of 
 water coming down into a pool from a great 
 height. 
 
 "A mountain pool! ... A plunge by star 
 light in this air. . . . 
 
 He pressed toward the sound, eager, aquiver 
 for the cold clasp of water about his bare 
 limbs, already loosening his collar as he went. 
 But two yards farther he stopped short, taking 
 a quick step backward. There below him, in its 
 cup of ferny, wood-clad rocks, lay the pool, dark 
 and clear, like a magic mirror fed by the white 
 
 82
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 foam of a cascade. It was not the sheer fall of 
 the bank that had arrested him, however, but so 
 strange a glimpse, as behind the witched veil of 
 night so strange a gleam as from the old, lovely, 
 not-to-be-believed-in world of naiads and hama 
 dryads that he thought for an instant the wine 
 was truly in his brain. ... He stood throbbing, 
 his breath held. 
 
 "Pst!" came a sharp whisper. Then again: 
 "Pst! Pst!" As he stood bemused, with a 
 crackling sound there leaped toward him from 
 the underbrush a white wolf with lifted lip and 
 fangs shining. 
 
 Three bounds took Kent back again over the 
 high wall. He heard the wolf -thing leap scrab 
 bling against the stones. . . . Incontinently he 
 turned and fled, higher and higher, through vine 
 yards, across fields, over ditches, across a stream. 
 . . . Breathless at last, he threw himself down 
 upon a hillside. 
 
 "Good Lord!" said he, and took his head be 
 tween both hands as though to steady it. ... 
 "Good Lord!" . . . What he had seen was the 
 flash of a white arm and flank out of the spray, 
 delicate yet distinct as the trace that a falling 
 star leaves on the dark air.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 SIGNORA CIELO," said Kent the next 
 morning, when his padrona came to bring 
 him his breakfast (her lovely name was Laura 
 Cielo), "my dear Signora, I fear that the delicious 
 wine that your brother sends you from Solcio is 
 very strong indeed." 
 
 "But no, Signore. Truly," protested she, "it 
 is so light that a babe might suck it from the 
 bottle and not be injured." 
 
 "Strange," said Kent, musingly. "Have you 
 any witches about here?" 
 
 "Witches, Signore?" 
 
 She looked troubled, and "made horns" be 
 hind her back. 
 
 "Yes, witches . . . fairies . . . enchanted per 
 sons." 
 
 "About fairies I never heard, Signore. As for 
 witches" her fingers were firmly set in the sign 
 against evil "the Signore must know how ig 
 norant people talk in all quarters of the world." 
 
 "Ah! ... So there are witches, then . . . 
 white witches, I hope?" 
 
 "Scusi, Signore; but the Signore will please 
 84
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 taste this butter before I go, and tell me if it is 
 quite fresh." 
 
 She set before him the little pot of old Lodi-ware 
 with its posy of orange nasturtiums stuck through 
 the handle, and became very busy, laying the 
 green table on the balcony with honey, fresh eggs, 
 rye-bread, cream, and smoking coffee that had no 
 chiccory in it. Laura Cielo prided herself upon 
 her coffee. 
 
 "So you do not wish to talk about it?" asked 
 Kent, after tasting the butter as requested, and 
 saying that he was sure that it was made of 
 cream skimmed from the Milky Way, so en 
 tirely heavenly was it. 
 
 Laura smiled, and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "It is as well not to begin the day with such 
 talk," said she. 
 
 "Very well," said Kent. "There can be no 
 objection, T suppose, to my asking the name of 
 that very imposing mountain opposite?" 
 
 "The Signore is merry this morning," said 
 Laura, with her soft, indulgent smile of the born 
 mother. "My Pedring is always gay in the 
 morning also. It is a very good thing for the 
 health, . . . and for the wives and mothers," she 
 added, slyly. Then, becoming serious again: 
 "That mountain, Signore, is called the Stone of 
 Iron. It is not friendly to men, I believe. There 
 is one small village on the other side called Vara- 
 ro. We believe it to be so called because people 
 
 85
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 go there so rarely. But perhaps that is only 
 fancy. It has eaten several men, that mountain. 
 . . . Brutta bestial" (Ugly beast!) said she, ad 
 dressing it. "Only last year a poor fellow rolled 
 from its top onto the rocks and was schiscia 
 (smashed) . . . just spattered about," she ended 
 with an expressive gesture. 
 
 They both regarded it in silence for a moment. 
 
 "I see no particular use in the world for a 
 mountain like that, do you, Signora?" asked 
 Kent at last. 
 
 "God, who made it, alone can tell," answered 
 she. "But, after all, those hazel bushes that 
 cover it make good charcoal. They belong to the 
 Ospedale Maggiore, in Milan, I am told. See 
 where the wood-cutters have cleared this year. 
 . . . That long stripe, like a stocking hung up to 
 dry. . . . Yes, the hazel wood on it is of use." 
 
 "Hazel wood is also good against witches, isn t 
 it?" said Kent, mischievously. But Laura only 
 shook her head at him with another smile, and 
 made her escape. 
 
 "And now," said Kent, after his postprandial 
 pipe, with a long, long stretch, and wriggle of 
 ennui "now for a call on the Signora Pupin or 
 Rupin or whatever her name is ... who got me 
 these jolly lodgings." 
 
 He took Varoni s letter of introduction from 
 his pocket and regarded it with much distaste. 
 
 " An twere done, twere well twere done 
 86
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 quickly, " said he at last. "I ll take one more 
 day of loafing, and then for Leonardo and the 
 Lady Lisa!" 
 
 Pedring pointed out to him the nearest way to 
 Vareggio, which was not far at best, and, having 
 attired himself properly in a fresher suit of white 
 flannels, he betook himself to pay his duty call. 
 
 The way that Pedring had directed him did 
 not lead him to the old iron gate, but to a small 
 wicket set higher up in a stone wall. The height 
 of this wall and its drapery of moss and wild 
 flowers made Kent thoughtful for a moment. 
 He looked back at it as he went down the 
 steep path among thick growths of birch and 
 poplar. Then he stopped short, as on the night 
 before. . . . The high, vibrant song of water 
 falling from a great height into a pool had caught 
 his ear. 
 
 "This is interesting," thought he, with his low, 
 self -communing laugh. "I wonder if ... but no 
 never lady of the name of Pupin or Rupin 
 bathed like a dryad in a mountain pool by star 
 light." 
 
 He arrived at the house, took a lazy glance at 
 the view, and rang the door-bell. 
 
 Cecca opened to him, smelling of sweet, mar 
 joram and thyme, which she had been preparing, 
 and with her best headkerchief somewhat hastily 
 assumed, and showing a lock of her iron-gray 
 hair. The Signora and the Signorina were both 
 
 87
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 absent, it pained her to say. Would the Signore 
 leave the letter with her? Would he have a 
 little Marsala or a cup of coffee and some almond- 
 cakes made with honey? The Signore thanked 
 her a thousand times, but he had just breakfasted 
 to repletion, and, yes, he thought that he would 
 leave the letter with her, and also a thousand 
 regrets. Just at this point Cecca tossed up her 
 hands with a despairing gesture, and said "Ma 
 donna mia!" and Kent, turning hastily, came 
 face to face with Dione. It was Dione s costume 
 that had caused Cecca to call upon the Virgin, 
 and for a moment Dione, who had rounded the 
 corner of the house without dreaming that there 
 could be a visitor at this early hour, was some 
 what uncomfortable herself. Then she came for 
 ward, and said, in her clear, composed young 
 voice : 
 
 "Good-morning, Signore. My mother is away 
 to-day. I see that you have a letter. Can I be 
 of service?" 
 
 Kent did not observe her closely at first. He 
 was staring at Masciett, who, erecting his scruff 
 slightly, stood and gazed back at him. 
 
 "He is not dangerous . . . unless I wish him 
 to be," said Dione, mistaking the young man s 
 fixed look for one of apprehension. 
 
 "He is very beautiful," said Kent, recovering 
 himself. Then he told her who he was, and ex 
 plained his errand.
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "The mamma will be very sorry to have missed 
 you," said Dione, politely. "If you care to stay 
 a little while, Cecca will bring you some Marsala 
 and almond-cakes." 
 
 "A thousand thanks, but I have just break 
 fasted," said Kent again. 
 
 "Surely," said Dione. "I think it a very 
 stupid custom myself, but one is supposed to 
 keep it. Shall we sit out here, or do you prefer 
 to come into the salottino?" 
 
 "Signorina! ... On such a morning?" ex 
 claimed Kent. 
 
 "Yes, ... it would be a pity," said Dione, and 
 she caught in a few more ruffled locks with one 
 of the two big silver hair-pins that held them. 
 
 Kent, without seeming to watch her, had now 
 taken in every detail of her costume and ap 
 pearance. 
 
 She had been to wash Masciett in the pool, and 
 he shone like a thing of spun mica, though he 
 was now taking mad, skating slides, head down, 
 along the gravel, in the natural dog -desire to 
 rub off the edge of his cleanness. 
 
 "Masciett, va! Via!" said Dione, and she 
 waved him imperiously onto the grass. 
 
 At the same time that she bathed him she had 
 shaken her hair about in the spray from the cas 
 cade. It was still frosted with moisture, and 
 had left a dark patch on the shoulders of her 
 green linen gown. This gown shortened with 
 
 8 9
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 two large shield-pins, which she now began 
 leisurely to unclasp left exposed her fine round 
 ankles and the long sweep of her bare insteps, 
 rising stockingless from the black wooden zoccoli 
 or peasants pattens, with which she was shod. 
 Her slim toes, even and faintly pink *as a row of 
 pale honeysuckle buds, escaped from the side bits 
 of red leather laced over them, and gleamed wet 
 and fresh in the sunlight. 
 
 She did not draw in her feet under the hem of 
 her gown when she sat down at last to talk with 
 Kent, but left them calmly where they would 
 have rested had they been clad in the smartest of 
 smart shoes. 
 
 As she pulled down her sleeves which had been 
 rolled back over her long, beautifully tapering 
 arms, Kent s eyes followed the pure line to the 
 tips of the chiselled fingers with their clear, 
 delicate nails. 
 
 "No, dear Signora Laura," thought he, "it 
 was not your good wine of Solcio that was too 
 strong. And my Muse and I have one secret 
 at least, between us, which the world will never 
 hear."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 I CANNOT take my eyes from your dog," 
 he then said, watching Masciett, who, 
 piqued by some strange sound in the valley be 
 low, had reared himself up with both forepaws 
 on the parapet of the terrace, thus showing the 
 splendid outline of his deep girth and tucked-up 
 waist to perfection. "What breed of dog is he? 
 And what does his name mean ? It is dialect, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Dione told him the ancestry of Masciett, and 
 explained his name. 
 
 "Yes, it is dialect," said she, "and it means 
 Little Male. . . . My father named him. He 
 did not like sentimental names for animals." 
 
 "It suits him perfectly," said Kent. "I should 
 like to know this dialect. It seems so crisp, and 
 packed with idiom. I suppose you speak it very 
 well, Signorina?" 
 
 "Yes. All children here speak dialect before 
 Italian. They learn it from their balie (wet- 
 nurses). As you say, it is very expressive. But 
 it differs slightly with every place. In Stresa it 
 is already different from what it is in Ghifla. 
 And the Milanese is again different." 
 
 91
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "But only slightly so, is it not? My friend, 
 Gigino Varoni, I ve heard speak it with others, 
 of course, but I ve never stopped in Milan till 
 this spring, and he always speaks Italian with 
 me." 
 
 "Yes, a word here and there the pronuncia 
 tion." 
 
 "I must learn it," said Kent. "I shall begin 
 with Pedring to-day." 
 
 "It would be difficult to learn, it seems to me," 
 said Dioiie. "But perhaps you have a talent for 
 languages?" 
 
 "I don t know about that," said Kent, with 
 his gay smile. "I ve a knack at dialects, though. 
 I can hobnob with the gondoliers in their own 
 patois like a native." 
 
 "You have been much in Italy?" 
 
 "I lived in Florence until I was ten. And 
 since I was twenty-three I ve been six months in 
 Italy every year of my life." 
 
 "You like it?" 
 
 "It is my dear balia that I love along with my 
 own mother." 
 
 "Sometimes one loves one s balia more than 
 one s mother." 
 
 "Well, it is a very close thing, I confess," said 
 Kent, smiling again. 
 
 "She seems rather commonplace," he thought; 
 "yet she can t be, with that odd, striking face. 
 I wonder if she is beautiful? Somehow I can t 
 
 92
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 make up my mind. Her body is certainly beau 
 tiful. And she has something fateful about her 
 . . . like one of the Parcas when they were 
 young . . . Atropos, I think. I can fancy her, 
 under certain circumstances, snicking three-fold 
 cords, with those black brows of hers bent in a 
 bow, and that mouth set thin and hard as the lip 
 of a shell. . . . She isn t the least like an Italian 
 girl ... all Slav, I should say. Or no, per 
 haps just a dash of the Latin to give her that 
 strange air. ..." 
 
 Dione was sitting perfectly still, with one arm 
 thrown out along the parapet, and her forceful, 
 irregular profile turned toward him. Her face 
 was in shadow, and out of this shadow her vivid 
 mouth gleamed with a certain violence of con 
 trast. It was not madder or crimson like the 
 mouths of most women, but a golden scarlet, like 
 rose-hips in winter. 
 
 "She can t be commonplace," concluded Kent, 
 "it s impossible. I wonder what she s thinking 
 now ? Nothing that she ll speak of, I ll warrant." 
 
 Dione was looking at the Sasso, and thinking 
 of Pan and her invocation of him. It was not 
 likely that she would mention this to Kent. She 
 was also thinking that Kent was the first real 
 man, according to her idea of a man, that she 
 had ever seen except her father. It was still 
 more unlikely that she would mention this. She 
 was also wondering if he could be the "mate from 
 
 93
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 among all other men" that she had asked Pan 
 to send her, for she was not sure that she liked 
 him. She had a queer impulse to spring up and 
 leave him, and go far and fast in the opposite di 
 rection. This she thought strange, as people 
 generally left her completely indifferent. She 
 did not know that she was experiencing the 
 primitive recoil of the woman in presence of the 
 man destined to dominate. These last reflec 
 tions, least of all, was she likely to confide to 
 their subject. 
 
 "Is it very gay in Intra? Do you go out a 
 great deal to balls and parties of all sorts, Sig- 
 norina?" said Kent at last. 
 
 "No," said Dione. "I do not like them." 
 
 "You do not like to dance? But, with per 
 mission, you are made to dance, Signorina." 
 
 "If one could dance by one s self it might be 
 pleasant," said Dione; "but to dance with men, 
 on the top of whose heads one looks down, that 
 is not agreeable at all." 
 
 Kent laughed out. 
 
 "You are certainly very tall for an Italian 
 young lady, Signorina, and that is the truth," 
 said he. 
 
 "Are the young girls in England so very tall, 
 then?" 
 
 "As tall as I am, some of them." 
 
 "I should not like to be as tall as you 
 are." 
 
 94
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Certainly not. It would be much too tall for 
 a woman." 
 
 "But it is not for a man," said Dione, de 
 cidedly. "May I ask how tall you are?" 
 
 Six feet two and a half inches without my 
 shoes, to be precise," said Kent, much amused. 
 "I don t know how to put it into metres, as I 
 was never able to master my multiplication-table. 
 
 "I could never learn arithmetic either, though 
 my father worked over me with great patience." 
 
 "Then there is one taste, at least, that we have 
 in common," said Kent, gayly. 
 
 "It is not a taste with me," returned Dione; 
 "it is just a lack." 
 
 "Oh," thought Kent, "is it possible that she is 
 literal?" 
 
 Then he reflected that there must be some 
 method of "getting at" the real girl, under the 
 husk of convention. "Let s see what she reads 
 if she reads, he told himself. Well, if you do 
 not care for society, you must read a great deal, 
 do you not ?" he said aloud. 
 
 Dione gave him a fleet, brushing glance. "I 
 have read / Promessi Sposi," said she. 
 
 "Naturally," said Kent. "It is a famous 
 novel. And then?" 
 
 "I have read Picciola and She paused to 
 remember; then went on quickly: "And the 
 Graziella of Lamartine, and part of Le Roman 
 dun Jeune Homme Pauvre." 
 
 95
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 She stopped short, but this time she kept her 
 eyes fixed upon his. 
 
 Kent was somewhat dashed, then a certain look 
 in those thick- veiled eyes struck him. He opened 
 his lips to speak, then closed them, then began 
 to laugh. "Signorina," said he, "with permis 
 sion, I believe that for some occult reason of your 
 own you are putting me to a test." 
 
 To his surprise and delight Dione lifted her 
 chin, and that soft, reedy laughter of hers rip 
 pled up from her full throat. They laughed and 
 laughed. 
 
 Cecca, in her eyry of green-bowered kitchen 
 window, pricked her ears. Was that her young 
 sciord s rare laughter mingling so freely with the 
 mirth of a strange man? "He must be a very 
 witty scior, truly, to make the child laugh out 
 like that," thought she. "Eh! Who knows? 
 Perhaps tis the husband come at last. If he is 
 as good as his looks, all will be well. E ciao!" 
 said Cecca to herself. 
 
 "And may I ask," said Kent, when they were 
 calm again, and only smiling joyously at each 
 other "may I venture to inquire if those four 
 admirable books form the complete list of your 
 reading?" 
 
 Dione shook her head, still smiling. "Oh, I 
 read all sorts of things," said she. 
 
 They were quite at ease now. A man and 
 woman who have laughed from the heart to- 
 
 96
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 gether can never be wholly apart again. Some 
 subtle essence of each has been mixed in the cup 
 of understanding, and that potent brew par 
 taken of constitutes part, at least, of the cere 
 mony in the marriage of true minds. 
 
 "Yes," thought Kent, "when she smiles she is 
 beautiful." Aloud to her, he said: 
 
 "You say that very whimsically. Do you 
 think that I shall be shocked at your reading all 
 sorts of things ?" 
 
 "Your friend, the Signor Varoni, was much 
 shocked." 
 
 "Oh, was he? ... Now I strongly suspect 
 that you put him to some such test as you put 
 me . . . only of a different nature, perhaps. 
 Was it not so?" 
 
 "I was only quite frank with him," said Dione, 
 with demureness. 
 
 "The perfect frankness of a clever woman can 
 be a severe test," said Kent, as demurely. 
 
 "Well," said Dione, "you see, he reminded me 
 of those books that I mentioned to you, and 
 asked me if I did not think them delightful. 
 And I had almost forgotten the last three, which 
 had bored me very much at the time, . . . and 
 so ... well, I was bored again, . . . and I just 
 mentioned one of the books that had really in 
 terested me, though it did not please me." 
 
 "And that shocked him?" 
 
 "But enormously!" 
 7 97
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "May I know what book it was?" 
 
 Dione looked at him quite grave again. "No," 
 said she at last, "I have no desire to shock you. 
 . . . Besides, though I do not think that you 
 would be shocked, it is an unpleasant book to 
 discuss." 
 
 "We need not discuss it," said Kent, really 
 curious. 
 
 "If you please," said Dione, "I will not tell the 
 name of that book." 
 
 Thought Kent: "I do not please at all. I 
 feel that in learning the name of that book I 
 should learn much more. But when you set 
 your mouth like that I suppose that things are 
 settled." 
 
 Very well," said he. "I should have liked to 
 hear it because, do you see ? Gigino Varoni is 
 a dear chap, and not at all a fool, and I cannot 
 help being a bit curious over what shocked him 
 so greatly." 
 
 "I do not think," said Dione, with acumen, 
 "that he would have been so shocked if an Eng 
 lish girl had read it. You see, Italian girls are 
 supposed to know nothing of what is under life 
 ... of the things that live under the waters, I 
 might say. That is all. They are supposed just 
 to float about in pretty, white, little boats, and 
 ask their mammas before they go out whether 
 they shall say Pere or Prugne. She made the 
 grimaces that correspond with these two words 
 
 98
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 as she uttered them, first simpering with her 
 bright-red lips, then pursing them up as if for a 
 kiss. "That is why he was shocked, you see. 
 But, then, since you have been so much in Italy, 
 you must know all this as well as I." 
 
 Here the old iron gate clanged, and shortly 
 after Madame Rupin came up the path.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SHE was warm, and excited, and flustered, 
 and very pleased. She was fashionably at 
 tired in a smart Milan gown and hat, both much 
 too heavy for the day, and she kept inserting a 
 little wad of damp handkerchief under her big, 
 black - speckled, white veil as she talked, and 
 patting away the perspiration that would gather 
 about her eyes. 
 
 She had a right, indeed, to be pleased. Here 
 within ten days was another possible husband for 
 her trying child, and one, moreover, who was 
 well born, rich, and distinguished a real scior in 
 his own exacting country. She had "pumped" 
 the Varonin dry, you may be sure, on the sub 
 ject of his gifted friend, and lo! here was the 
 gifted friend himself, quite at home, and talking 
 with that hard-to-please daughter of hers as if 
 he were really enjoying himself. 
 
 She insisted upon his having some Marsala and 
 almond-cakes first of all, and then, when he ex 
 cused himself for the third time with the cus 
 tomary thousand of thanks, she insisted that he 
 should stay to lunch with them. As he had 
 dedicated this one more day to loafing, he ac- 
 
 100
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 cepted with pleasure. "And afterward," said the 
 delighted lady, "afterward Dione can show you 
 the Trinita. . . . Fortunate girl! She neither 
 tans nor freckles. Do you, my treasure? . . . 
 And she adores long walks, and never takes a 
 siesta after luncheon, as we other poor, weak 
 little women do. ... She is so strong. . . . 
 Like an English girl. . . . Yes, her father and I 
 have brought her up very much like an English 
 girl. ... I allow her to take walks unchap- 
 eroned when it is with some one of whom I am 
 quite certain. . . . Ah, you may rest assured 
 that the Signora Varpni was not reserved in her 
 accounts of you, caro Signore. . . . Yes, yes, it 
 will be quite delightful to have so distinguished 
 a visitor to lunch in our quiet little abode. ..." 
 Then suddenly she took a lightning squint down 
 her pretty nose, and saw that it was very shiny 
 indeed. "But now," said she, hurriedly, "I must 
 take this little girl of mine to put on a proper 
 dress, and go to consult my donna di servizio 
 about the meal ..." 
 
 And she tripped off on her slim, long-toed, 
 high-heeled, champagne-colored, white-buttoned 
 boots to powder that most aggravating little item 
 in the sum of her good looks. Dione s costume 
 and the zoccoli had almost caused her mother 
 a fainting-fit when she first caught sight of them, 
 but she had immediately reflected that the girl 
 had such feet to bare as were probably not to 
 
 101
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 be matched in all Italy, and that men were 
 "strange." . . . Perhaps these bare feet would 
 accomplish what the most elaborate toilette 
 could not. Who knew? E ciao! 
 
 The lunch was a really capital repast (Madame 
 Rupin being a gourmande of the first order) . And 
 Cecca served it well, looking so handsome in her 
 pink-and-white print gown, and the real rose- 
 silk headkerchief that Dione had given her on her 
 last festa, that Kent could scarcely keep his eyes 
 from her. 
 
 What a superb old woman , said he. " Quite 
 the most beautiful old woman I have ever seen, 
 I think." 
 
 Dione looked pleased, and her deep eyes grew 
 liquid. 
 
 "As for me," said her mother, "I could never 
 see the least beauty in old age. ... To me it is 
 the most horrible of all ideas, except the idea of 
 death. B-r-r-r. ..." And she shuddered, mak 
 ing the sign against evil out of sight among the 
 folds of her gown. 
 
 "But Cecca is beautiful, mamma," insisted 
 Dione. "Age does not take away her fine pro 
 file or her splendid eyes. . . ." 
 
 "Age," retorted her mother, "is loathsome in 
 spite of a hundred fine noses and eyes. A man 
 once said to me that all women over fifty ought 
 to be killed . . . and he was perfectly right," she 
 ended, bitterly. 
 
 102
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Then she recalled suddenly the situation, and 
 became once more all treacle-y smiles, and little 
 facetiousnesses, and "Tesoros" and "Gioias." 
 By the end of lunch Kent felt that he had had 
 just about as much of Dione s mother as he could 
 stand for the time being. The way that she 
 quirked her little, moist, very white, black- 
 rimmed fingers in handling knife and fork took 
 off the edge of even his robust appetite. 
 
 It was with a deep lung-filling of relief that he 
 found himself walking through the cool chestnut 
 woods alone with Dione toward the Hermitage 
 of the Trinita. 
 
 "You do indeed walk like an English girl, 
 Signorina," he said, as she stepped in perfect time 
 beside him, with her long, fauve gait. Or, rather, 
 you walk as fast and much more gracefully. 
 Gigino told me about your walk. It quite bowled 
 him over," he added, mischievously, with the 
 Italian equivalent for "bowled him over." 
 
 "I did not know that I had walked with Sig- 
 nor Varoni," said the girl, unconcernedly. "A 
 little stroll in the garden . . . that was not walk 
 ing." 
 
 "At any rate," persisted Kent, "he was quite 
 overcome." 
 
 "He is easily overcome, then," said Dione, still 
 more indifferently. 
 
 An opening in the trees brought the Sasso di 
 Ferro into full view. 
 
 103
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "That is an extraordinary mountain," said 
 Kent, gazing at it. "I suppose it cannot im 
 press you, who have lived in sight of it all your 
 life, as it does me." 
 
 Dione looked at it with him in silence for some 
 moments. Then she glanced at his absorbed face. 
 
 "I call it Pan s Mountain," she said at last. 
 
 "Tan s Mountain !" he repeated. "It is its 
 very name. Why did I not think of that, I 
 wonder? . . ." 
 
 Then he looked down with a new interest at 
 Dione. "You love the memory of the old dead 
 gods?" he asked. 
 
 "They do not seem dead to me," she answered. 
 
 "No?" he said, more interested than ever. 
 
 "No," said Dione. 
 
 "You mean that you really ..." 
 
 "I cannot talk about it," said the girl. "At 
 least," she added, after a pause, "I cannot talk 
 about it with most people." 
 
 "I am not most people, " said Kent, whimsi 
 cally. "With your permission, I am considered 
 a poet . . . and that is the sort of thing they 
 always understand." 
 
 "Why do you say considered ?" asked Dione. 
 "Signer Varoni says that even our great poets 
 say that you are a poet." 
 
 "Then," said Kent, trying to be as direct and 
 unaffected as she was, "do you not think that 
 you might talk about such things with a poet?" 
 
 104
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Dione looked right up into his eyes, and he saw 
 that her thick lashes made reflections in them 
 exactly like grasses in still water. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said at last, "when I know you 
 better." 
 
 "And when shall you know me well enough, do 
 you think?" 
 
 "When I know the things you laugh at," said 
 
 Dione. "No one ever knows another in the 
 
 least until one knows the things they laugh at." 
 
 "That, Signorina, is a profound truth," said 
 
 Kent. 
 
 "Yes, though I am only eighteen years old, I 
 have found out that that is true," replied Dione. 
 They walked on in silence for a while, and then 
 Kent said again : 
 
 " It is really amazing how well you walk. One 
 is not used to seeing Italian women walk like that. 
 I believe you could go on for fifteen or twenty 
 kilometres without tiring. You do not walk in 
 any respect like an Italian woman." 
 
 "It is, perhaps, that I do not wear corsets," 
 said Dione. 
 
 Kent could not restrain a glance of astonish 
 ment. The slight, strong figure in its smoothly 
 fitting gown of white linen, cut all in one, had 
 seemed to him too absolutely finished and per 
 fect not to be molded artificially at some point. 
 "No, I do not think it can be only that," was 
 all that he said; and went on: "But as strong 
 
 105
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 and active as you are, do you only walk for ex 
 ercise?" 
 
 "I can swim," said Dione . . . "well," she added 
 after a second, "and I can play boccie . . . but 
 mamma does not like me to." 
 
 "Can you really play boccie well, Signorina? 
 ... A woman s greatest talent is not for throw 
 ing things, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know. My father explained to me 
 why I can throw so well. It is because these 
 bones" she indicated her splendidly set clavicle 
 "with me are put in like a boy s." 
 
 "I see," said Kent, amused. 
 
 "If you do not quite believe me," said she, with 
 perfect good-humor, "we can have a game at the 
 Trinita, and then you can see for yourself." 
 
 "Capital!" exclaimed Kent. "But I do be 
 lieve you. . . . Why do you doubt it ?" 
 
 "It is a hard thing to believe that a girl can 
 throw things well," returned Dione. "And you 
 never saw me until two hours ago." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Kent, seriously, "I should 
 believe whatever you told me." 
 
 "Then," said Dione, as seriously, "you really 
 know things as one knows when one is wet all 
 over, as Cecca says. Because the one thing that 
 I always do is to tell the truth. It makes mamma 
 very displeased sometimes, and even Cecca thinks 
 that I go too far. . . . But, tell me ... do you 
 think that one can go too far with the truth?" 
 
 106
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Ah," said Kent, "that is a very puzzling ques 
 tion. I would not dare to say No or Yes to 
 it, just offhand, like that. You see, I can be 
 truthful, too, for that was not at all the proper 
 answer to make you." 
 
 "I prefer truth to properness very much," said 
 Dione.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 KENT worked like a monomaniac for two 
 weeks with the rapidity and ease of a 
 machine descending with a god. The monotony 
 of these days would have been appalling to any 
 save the creative temper. With the regularity 
 of fine clockwork he rose at six, went Indian- 
 trotting down to the lake for a swim before the 
 domicile of Ping (with whom he had made great 
 friends), trotted back, tingling and exultant, to 
 breakfast on rye-bread and coffee at half -past 
 eight, and at half-past nine was in the thick of 
 the enchanted jungle of poetry slashing away 
 creepers of simile too clogging, snatching at 
 strange word - orchids, swimming bright, dan 
 gerous rivers of invention, tracking the painted 
 beasts of fancy to their breeding-places alive, 
 out of the flesh, playing with language like a child 
 with a sword of flame unenvious of any god in 
 the awareness of his own godhead. 
 
 Thus for three or four hours. Then would 
 come the reaction. How many fools had thought 
 themselves Homers? Had he not a whole shelf 
 of self-published megalomaniacs who had sent 
 
 108
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 him their effusions as the unappreciated first- 
 fruits of the age ? Was not one of these a com 
 plete History of the United States in very blank 
 verse and a thick quarto volume, which opened 
 with a scene between the archangels Michael and 
 Raphael in Westminster Abbey ? And did not its 
 writer think it more sublime than Paradise Lost? 
 
 Then, in a soggy and darkling mood, he would 
 partake of polenta and milk on the little green 
 table in the balcony (for he never drank wine 
 when he was writing) , shake his fist at the imper 
 turbable Sasso di Ferro as at one from whom came 
 baneful influences, and, after a short siesta, flat 
 on his back on the tiled floor with his pet pipe, 
 w r ould spring up as reinvigorated as Antaeus after 
 contact with the earth, and reading snatches of 
 the morning s work, would cry, "Yes . . . it s 
 good . . . it s good." 
 
 After that came an afternoon of revision and 
 the jotting down of thick-swarming thoughts. 
 Then another trot-down and swim, and back 
 again in time for dinner. 
 
 With this meal he had a deep quaff of the good 
 wine of Solcio, then went down-stairs to chat 
 with the Sciora Laura and Pedring, or to take 
 a hand at scopa or briscola with the latter, until 
 ten o clock, at which hour he dragged his mat 
 tress out upon the little balcony and went to 
 sleep in the clean, fragrant air with the constel 
 lations wheeling majestically above him. 
 
 109
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 This, to her, mad whim of his for sleeping out 
 in the open, with not even a sheet between him 
 and the malevolent air of night, scandalized and 
 distressed the Sciora Laura to a painful degree. 
 In vain Kent assured her that he draped the 
 balcony with his travelling-rugs so that no air- 
 shy neighbor could be horrified. It was not that. 
 No, truly. It was that he would surely get a 
 "stroke of cold," and this stroke might fall upon 
 his liver or his spleen, or even upon his heart, 
 God alone could tell . . . and he might be very 
 ill, or even die. . . . And then his lady mother s 
 grief would be upon her, Laura, like a dark curse. 
 She implored, she argued, she almost threatened. 
 And when she found that all was vain she 
 actually made a little pilgrimage to a distant 
 chapel and asked the Virgin s special protection 
 for a crazy son who was far from the mother who 
 might have controlled him. 
 
 At the end of these two weeks Kent felt a sud 
 den, overwhelming thirst for the companionship 
 of his own kind and degree. Varoni had been in 
 London for some time on business for his father, 
 who was a Milan banker. There were only the 
 Rupins left. 
 
 "The very thing," said he, as this thought came 
 to him. "I ll let up for a day, and go and ask 
 that queer, interesting girl to come and have a 
 game of boccie at the Trinita." 
 
 And he smiled with sheer pleasure in the un- 
 no
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 usual and beautiful, as he recalled the backward 
 swing of her tall, springy figure, with one of the 
 big, wooden balls poised in her lifted hand. 
 
 All the time that he was dressing for this ex 
 pedition he whistled so gayly and so masterfully 
 in two keys, that Laura told her son: "One would 
 think two blackbirds singing together in the 
 house." 
 
 He arrived at Vareggio just as they were finish 
 ing breakfast. Would the Signora Rupin be so 
 very gracious as to allow her daughter to walk to 
 the Trinita with him, and there partake of lunch ? 
 "It is an English custom," he added, cutely; but 
 he said nothing of the game of boccic, remember 
 ing Dione s mention of her "mamma s " prejudice. 
 The Signora Rupin, who had almost given him 
 up as a probable suitor for her child s hand, and 
 who had caused Cecca and Dione some trying 
 moments on that account, agreed to this sug 
 gestion with unveiled delight. 
 
 She even proposed that Cecca should put them 
 up an elaborate lunch which they might carry in 
 her own little two-handled Venetian basket. 
 But Dione said that one could get an excellent 
 frittata and salad at the Trinita, and that she 
 was sure that the Signer Kent would rather not 
 carry a basket. Kent admitted that he pre 
 ferred the idea of a frittata already on the spot, 
 and with that and many auguri from the en 
 thusiastic Signora Mamma, they set off. 
 
 in
 
 PAN S MOUNTAI N 
 
 Dione was already dressed for walking, as she 
 had intended to take a long ramble in the hills by 
 herself. 
 
 "The very thing for a game of boccie," declared 
 Kent in high good-humor, looking at her short 
 skirt of stiff, gray fustian, and her loose blouse 
 of white silk that had been washed many times. 
 She wore a little white linen peasant s hat, and 
 carried a light staff of bamboo. 
 
 "It was sheer inspiration, my thought of ask 
 ing you to come," continued he. 
 
 "Yes. I am very glad," said Dione. "It is 
 a good day for a game. Not too hot, and over 
 cast." 
 
 "It is a good day for anything," said Kent. 
 
 That last scene between Leonardo and the 
 Lady Lisa made him feel that he had a right to 
 the playthings of the gods. 
 
 They went without pausing through the garden 
 and up the hillside and past the cascade, out upon 
 the one street of Vareggio. Here the sight of 
 some boys torturing two little gire (the thin- 
 tailed squirrels of the lake) brought them to an 
 angry halt. 
 
 Dione, too indignant to be wise, ordered the 
 instant release of the gire. The boys merely 
 grinned, and dragged the little creatures faster 
 through the dust by the cords which they had 
 fastened to their legs. Then Kent was for using 
 force. 
 
 112
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 ^"No ... no ..." said Dione, "the whole 
 village will be up if you mishandle the children. 
 Let me speak some more." 
 
 And, turning, she poured forth a torrent of 
 forceful dialect that gave the boys pause for a 
 moment, and made them look foolishly, first at 
 her and then at one another. 
 
 "Are they going to let them go? ... What 
 did you say to them?" asked Kent. 
 
 "I cursed them," said Dione, simply. 
 
 "You did what?" 
 
 "I said: If you do not let those gire go, may 
 the Madonna see that you go to the Inferno as 
 gire yourselves, and may stout devils with horns 
 and forked tails tie you by the leg with cords of 
 fire and drag your eyes out over hot cobble 
 stones! " 
 
 "Lord love us !" breathed Kent, consumed with 
 inward laughter. "They ll let them go, I should 
 think." 
 
 But despite this thorough and original cursing, 
 they had to produce some soldi and buy the gire 
 before the imps would part with them. 
 
 As soon as the strings were handed them Dione 
 lifted the worst injured little beast and cuddled 
 it against her breast. Kent caught up the other, 
 which promptly bit him through the fleshy part 
 of his finger. 
 
 "Have care, Signorina!" called he, finger in 
 mouth and the gira transferred gingerly to 
 
 8 113
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 his pocket. "These little animals bite like 
 traps." 
 
 "Nothing ever bites me," said Dione. "I can 
 handle any wild thing." 
 
 And she continued to cherish the little panting 
 bunch of fur and fish-like bones. 
 
 They retraced their steps to the house, and 
 Dione laid the gire upon some cotton-wool in the 
 cage which had once held a blackbird that she 
 had set free again, for the sight of a caged bird 
 infuriated her almost as much as the sight of 
 animals being tortured. 
 
 "Keep them carefully for me, Cecca mia," she 
 said. "I will put them back in the forest with 
 my own hands this evening if they are recovered 
 enough." 
 
 Then she and Kent set out for the Trinita 
 again, this time without further adventures.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 I AM always glad when I see a sight like 
 that that I am not a Christian," said 
 Dione, as they passed once more through Vareg- 
 gio on their way to the forest. 
 
 Kent thought her the most amazingly and de 
 lightfully unexpected being that he had ever 
 known. 
 
 "And why?" asked he, taking this startling 
 announcement as a matter of course. 
 
 "Because when one sees men or boys torturing 
 some poor, helpless thing, and remonstrates with 
 them, they always say, l Hin minga Christian 1 
 (They re not Christians), as if being a Christian 
 gave one the right to every sort of devil s cruelty 
 over those who are not." 
 
 "And you, yourself . . . with permission I 
 should like to know the reason why you do not 
 call yourself a Christian?" 
 
 "It is because of the beasts," said Dione. 
 
 "Because of the beasts?" said Kent. 
 
 "Yes. Christians, here in Italy at least, are 
 most cruel to animals. I often think how it 
 might have been if the Christ had said a great 
 
 "5
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 saying for the poor beasts. Consider the lilies, 
 He said, but if He had said, Consider the beasts, 
 how much better that would have been. He 
 said, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall 
 inherit the earth . . . but suppose He had said, 
 Blessed are the-kind-to-animals, for God will be 
 kind to them ? . . . Think how different it would 
 all have been ! No poor gire with their eyes half 
 dragged out, no poor horses beaten over the heads 
 with great sticks when their loads are too heavy 
 or struck with whips having nails in them, such 
 as they use in Naples. . . . No, if the Christ 
 had said that a Christian is one who is merciful 
 to animals, all those cryings and groanings of 
 helpless hurt beasts would never have sounded 
 through Christian lands." 
 
 Her eyes were dark and hot, and her breast 
 heaving. It was a rare thing for Dione to work 
 herself into a passion, and she was really a rare 
 thing to look upon when she did so. There was 
 something about her, some inner glow, that was 
 like a white sword-flame in a clear sheath. 
 
 Kent was beginning to think her remarkable as 
 well as unusual. 
 
 "You make one reflect, Signorina," said he. 
 
 "I have reflected a great deal myself," replied 
 she in her usual direct fashion. "I have been 
 much alone, and when one is alone one has only 
 one s thoughts." 
 
 "Most people have only those of others." 
 116
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Other people s thoughts do not interest me 
 as my own do. I may have said a stupidity, but 
 it is true." 
 
 "It is certainly far from being stupid. But 
 tell me, if I am not indiscreet, do you never go 
 to mass, as others do ?" 
 
 "I go with my mother at certain times be 
 cause I do not wish to give her unnecessary pain 
 by seeming too peculiar in the eyes of others. 
 But I have told her how I feel. It was my 
 father s wish that I should believe only what 
 came naturally to me." 
 
 "Your father must have been a very wise 
 man." 
 
 "Yes, my father was both wise and good." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then said: 
 
 "I think that you would have pleased him." 
 
 Kent felt himself flush with pleasure like a boy. 
 He knew instinctively that a compliment coming 
 from Dione was a most unusual thing. 
 
 "Thank you, Signorina," said he. "I should 
 have felt it an honor to know him." 
 
 "And then," Dione continued, intoxicated by 
 the singular delight of talking to some one who 
 comprehended her, and speaking more in an hour 
 than she had done in a whole week, "some of 
 those stories in the Bible seem to me so very 
 silly when they are not improper. That tale of 
 Moses going up on a mountain and taking stone 
 tablets on which God wrote with His finger. 
 
 117
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Think of a God with fingers, Signore! Is it not 
 to be like those black men with hair of wool who 
 worship idols? Or like the Spanish sailors who 
 beat the image of the Madonna if she doesn t 
 send them fair weather when they pray for it? 
 Truly, Signore, think of a God who said Let 
 there be light and there was light, using His fin 
 gers His finger . . . Signore! and tracing out 
 words ! Of course when one has had a father like 
 mine, and thought long, long days and weeks and 
 years all alone as I have, one cannot believe such 
 clumsy inventions. But it occurred to me once," 
 she continued, "when I was reading about it all 
 in the Old Testament . . . my father gave me 
 a Bible in French, you must know, as he wished 
 me to look into these things for myself ... it 
 occurred to me that there might have been some 
 sort of foundation for that story, since, of course, 
 Moses must have cut the letters in the stone him 
 self. And as I could not find out the real ac 
 count in the Bible, I began making one in my own 
 head. It was very amusing." 
 
 "There is nothing more amusing, truly, than 
 making things in one s own head," said Kent, 
 afraid of saying more, lest he should stop the flow 
 of her confidence. 
 
 "Yes. ... Is it not so? ... Well, this his 
 tory that I made up was about a poor woman of 
 the strangers, who had been married by an 
 Israelite, and whom Moses had caused to be put 
 
 1x8
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 away. She naturally disliked Moses . . . do you 
 understand?" 
 
 "Entirely," said Kent. "She naturally would." 
 "And, besides, she believed in her own gods, 
 and not in this irascible Jehovah whom he was 
 always talking of. And she also thought that 
 Moses occasionally told untruths. Moreover, she 
 knew of his killing that man and hiding him in 
 the sand, so she did not think that God could 
 really have chosen Moses for His intimate friend, 
 as Moses himself was always saying. No, this she 
 did not believe for a moment. So, in my thought, 
 I made this woman, very strong in the revenge of 
 her heart, creep after Moses all the way up that 
 rocky mountain of Sinai, and though her poor 
 feet bled ... for she had been cast out from the 
 people, you know, and was very poor, and so had 
 no shoes and scarcely any clothing . . . though 
 her feet were bleeding and all her bones aching as 
 with malaria, she had a great, dark joy within 
 that kept her up and enabled her to reach the 
 mountain-top. And when she was there she hid 
 herself behind a rock and saw, with her own eyes, 
 Moses himself cutting the words in the stone 
 
 tablets." 
 
 "Well?" said Kent. 
 
 "Well . . . then she followed him down again, 
 very cunningly, so that he never knew that she 
 was there. And when all the people were as 
 sembled she sprang up before them and lifted her 
 
 119
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 arms in the air, and cried out with a great cry : 
 People ! Your prophet lies to you . . . God has 
 not written on these stones either with finger or 
 with pen, but Moses himself has cut out the 
 letters with a chisel, for with these eyes I beheld 
 him! " 
 
 So lost was Dione in her invention that she 
 paused, and, tossing up her arms, uttered the 
 speech of the stranger woman with tragic in 
 tensity. 
 
 "And then?" asked Kent, after waiting a 
 moment. 
 
 "And then the people stoned her, and went on 
 believing in Moses and the finger of God. It is 
 always so." 
 
 "Yes," said Kent, thoughtfully, "it is always 
 so." 
 
 The girl s mind began to fascinate him. He 
 longed to draw her out more and more, yet did 
 not know exactly how to do so. He felt like a 
 man on whose shoulder a free bird of the air has 
 alighted, afraid to speak, afraid to make a move 
 ment of any kind. But he need not have feared, 
 for that divine elation of the soul confessing itself 
 to the soul that comprehends still held Dione, and 
 her thoughts, long pent, pressed for utterance like 
 birds against a window-pane behind which is a 
 light. 
 
 "Now, you understand, Signore," she said, as 
 they walked on, "that I have no disbelief in a 
 
 1 20
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 great God above all gods. It is only that I feel 
 that about that God men cannot know, so that 
 the less they speak and say about Him the more 
 truly do they worship Him. The gods that are 
 near, that are made in our image those are the 
 gods of which men may speak and write." 
 
 "Ah," thought Kent, "the bird is coming into 
 my hand. Now she will tell me what she would 
 not tell the other day. She must have guessed 
 the things at which I laugh and at which I do not 
 laugh." 
 
 He was wisely silent, however, just giving her 
 an understanding look, and Dione continued. 
 
 "My old nurse, Cecca, you must know, Signore, 
 believes in witches and such things. I do not 
 know whether witches exist or not, but I cannot 
 laugh at her, for I believe in some things myself 
 at which others would laugh." 
 
 She gave him a quick glance. 
 
 "Not I," said Kent. "I believe in those sorts 
 of things myself." 
 
 "Yes?" said Dione. "That is well. I must 
 have felt it, for I could not have talked with you 
 as I have done had it been otherwise. About 
 these things that I believe in ... it is like this. 
 None can prove to me that they are not true; 
 but, then, neither can I prove to any that they 
 are true." 
 
 "Exactly," said Kent. 
 
 It occurred to him, drolly, that his replies were 
 
 121
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 becoming very like the answers of the persons 
 interrogated by Socrates in the dialogues of Plato. 
 
 "Precisely," said he, again. 
 
 "And sometimes," went on Dione, "I think 
 that it must be with Cecca something as it is with 
 me. Whether half asleep or wider awake than 
 usual I do not know, . . . but there are times 
 when I seem to hear and see things, and though 
 they are not real, as you and I are real here in 
 the sunlight, walking along these mountains to 
 the Trinita, yet they are more real in some strange 
 way I say it badly," she broke off, looking up 
 at him from under dissatisfied brows. 
 
 "No, you say it perfectly," returned Kent. 
 "It is the creative mood that you are describing 
 the mood in which one makes beings of one s 
 mind-stuff, and they are realer than all the flesh- 
 and-blood beings in the world." 
 
 "Yes . . . yes," said Dione, breathlessly, and 
 she smiled. 
 
 This smile made her so beautiful that Kent 
 just stared at her, off his guard. 
 
 But she was not conscious that she was being 
 stared at. 
 
 "Listen," she said. "I will tell you the kind 
 of thing that I mean. . . . One night last winter 
 . . . oh, it was very cold! . . . The snow came 
 pat, pat against my window like hands of little 
 baby ghosts asking to come in. ... The wind 
 made noises like a great bird in my chimney. 
 
 122
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 . . _ One could hear the trees crack with the cold 
 outside. . . . And in my room it was cold, cold. 
 . . . When I lighted a candle (for I could not 
 sleep, I was so cold) I could see my own breath 
 and the breath of Masciett coming out in little 
 puffs like smoke, where he lay sleeping on his rug 
 beside my bed. ... So I got up and took shav 
 ings and pine-cones, and lighted a great fire. . . . 
 I was crouching before this fire, and Masciett 
 close to me, and whether I dozed, who shall 
 say? . . . But all at once against my win 
 dow came three taps, sharp and clear . . . the 
 way that a great queen might rap, half angrily, 
 if she were shut out in the cold. I went at once 
 (or so I thought) , for that calling was not to be 
 disobeyed, and I threw wide my shutters. . . . 
 And it was the Lady Diana and two noble white 
 hounds who stood there at my window. And her 
 great bow of silver shone across her shoulder. 
 . . . And the arrows in her quiver were frozen 
 together, and the quiver filled with snow. 
 
 "And she was frowning at first, but then she 
 smiled, and reached me her hand, and I led her 
 to the fire, and spread for her the white bear 
 skin that belonged to my father, and that always 
 lies upon my bed in winter. And I gave her some 
 apples and honey which I had by me, . . . and 
 to the dogs I gave warm milk, . . . and they 
 lapped it up ... and were very friendly. But 
 Masciett went from them in terror, and hid far 
 
 123
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 under my bed. And his coat was bristling, . . . 
 and he moaned in his throat all the time that they 
 remained. 
 
 "And when she had eaten, the Lady Diana 
 said: Maiden, I come to you because when you 
 were but a little child and your father had been 
 telling you my name and who I am, you poured 
 me libation that evening of the milk in your little 
 bowl of silver, and you said, "Hail, Diana!" 
 And now, in this land where I was once so mighty, 
 and on all this dark earth, there is none who 
 keeps faith in me but only you alone and to you 
 alone have I appeared, and to you alone have I 
 made myself known. Unto no Christian could 
 I appear or be made known, for they are a strange 
 people, and have set up a strange Virgin in my 
 stead. And in all my fair hunting-places and 
 on the sides of all my mountains have they built 
 shrines to this strange Virgin, who has yet borne 
 a child and nurses it always against her breast. 
 And her they worship with weeping and wailing, 
 but me they worshipped with laughter and dan 
 cing. Yet I am Diana, and a Virgin, indeed, who 
 have no worshippers any more forever, but no 
 child! . . . These words, or some such words as 
 these, she spoke to me, and then bent and kissed 
 me upon the forehead. And with the cold of that 
 kiss I lost myself entirely. And when I next 
 knew anything the white dawn was come, and 
 Masciett licking my cheek, . . . and there on the 
 
 124
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 hearth was the empty bowl in which I had poured 
 the warm milk." 
 
 They had reached the Trinith. while Dione was 
 speaking, and had seated themselves side by side 
 on the stone parapet of the terrace before the 
 church, overlooking the lake. The green tent of 
 the old pollard linden-trees rustled above them, 
 and the light tramontana lifted the wreath of 
 Dione s black flamelets of hair into a sort of airy 
 diadem. She had tossed her hat upon the ground 
 in the earnestness of her talk, and Kent stooped 
 and placed it upon the wall beside her as she 
 finished. 
 
 "Signorina," said he, "is it possible that I shall 
 be telling you news when I tell you that you, 
 yourself, are a poet?" 
 
 "Who? ... I? ..." said Dione, and she 
 looked scared. 
 
 "Yes, you, Signorina. Have you never tried 
 to set down things in writing ? Is it really possi 
 ble that you have never tried that?" 
 
 "Oh no ... no ... no," said Dione. "I could 
 not do it. ... I do not wish to. . . . You are 
 entirely mistaken. ... I just live these things. 
 The instant that I should try to write them they 
 would vanish ... I assure you, I assure you." 
 
 "Very well. . . . You must know best, of 
 course," agreed Kent, fearful of startling her too 
 much. "But, with permission, I shall make a 
 few notes of your story of Diana, and then try 
 
 125
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 to put it into my very imperfect Italian for you, 
 so that you may see for yourself whether it is a 
 poem or not." 
 
 And he took a small, worn note-book out of 
 his pocket, and drew from it a pencil. 
 
 This was the first time that Dione saw the 
 little, teeth-marked, silver pencil that was to be 
 come so familiar to her. 
 
 He scribbled earnestly for a time, and she 
 watched him, half fascinated, half ashamed. 
 
 "There," he said at last, pocketing book and 
 pencil again. "And now shall we order our/n Z- 
 tata and salad? You look ... is it polite to 
 tell a young Italian lady that she looks hungry ?" 
 
 "I am very hungry indeed," said Dione. 
 
 They had a truly idyllic meal together at one 
 of the stone tables Li front of the osteria, with the 
 lindens sending little disks of sunlight to float 
 over their pretty food, and the weather-faded 
 frescos of the Stations of the Cross glowing upon 
 them from the arcade to the right. "It takes 
 two poets to get up a god-like hunger," said Kent. 
 "There was an English poet once named Shelley, 
 and he would eat bowl after bowl of your pan cot, 
 that heavenly good soup made of stale bread and 
 water and butter and ... I must say that for 
 me, the last touch is some onions." 
 
 "I like onions in it, too," said Dione, gravely. 
 
 Then they strolled about awhile, and afterward 
 had a royal game of boccie, which Dione won. 
 
 126
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "You look like Atalanta, running to see where 
 you have placed your ball and how far you ve 
 sent mine off." 
 
 "Atalanta ran after golden apples, not wooden 
 balls," said Dione, gayly. 
 
 "Well, balls are golden when one throws them 
 like that," retorted he. 
 
 It was nearly four o clock when they started 
 back to Vareggio. 
 
 As they came out on the mountain-top among 
 the heather and the slight, nymph-like birches, 
 Dione looked up at the sky, half covered now by 
 little, round, white clouds, set close together like 
 new-baked loaves of bread on a blue platter. 
 
 " Quand i Nivul fan pan , 
 
 O pieuv incoeu, o pieuv diman , " 
 
 sang she in dialect. 
 
 "And what may that mean ?" asked Kent. 
 
 " When the clouds make bread, or are like 
 loaves of bread, it will rain to-day or to 
 morrow, " she translated. 
 
 "Then I was just in the nick of time with our 
 beautiful day," said Kent. 
 
 "Yes," said Dione, "it has truly been a beau 
 tiful day."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THOUGHT Kent that evening, after he had 
 read over the fortnight s work in order to 
 put himself in a fitting mood for the morrow, 
 and sat smoking a meditative pipe on his bal 
 cony: 
 
 "It is a fortunate thing for me that Dione is 
 only the potential mother of Aphrodite and not 
 Aphrodite herself. It is a very fortunate thing, 
 indeed, that that striking and original young 
 woman doesn t appeal to me in any of the more 
 obvious human fashions. She has a mind, 
 though, and an imagination. . . . And she is of 
 the heroically unsentimental type. ... I won 
 der," he broke off, addressing the Sasso di Ferro, 
 "what there is about her that reminds me of you, 
 my darkling friend ? Something fateful and im 
 pending, as if it would not be a good thing to 
 take little, jocose liberties with either of you? 
 The gods that are made in our image, she said. 
 . . . Yes . . . that young person could be quite 
 as ruthless as your genuine goddess on occasion, 
 I venture to surmise. . . . It s in her brows and 
 the whole look of her. . . . Rather an over- 
 
 128
 
 PAN S MOUNTAI N 
 
 whelming being to fall in love with. ... A sort 
 of cross between Medea and her own Diana. 
 Thank the Lord, my lady Lisa, you own me, body 
 and soul, for the present. ... I haven t so much 
 as a flicker to give any one else." 
 
 For he was, indeed, wholly enamoured of 
 La Gioconda, as he always was of his last creation 
 in woman. 
 
 "The mother, though . . ." he mused on. 
 "There s a nasty little person with a nasty little 
 mind. . . . And scheming!" ... He whistled. 
 "She s laying her net for me and Gigino with all 
 the persistence, if not the skill, of the fishermen 
 of Isola Pescatori. . . . What a little paste of low 
 thoughts and aims! . . . She s like maccaroni 
 that s been hung to dry where things aren t clean. 
 It s extraordinary how that woman annoys me. 
 . . . When one looks at that clean, clear girl, and 
 reflects who gave her birth, one rather believes in 
 reincarnation and sich. . . . Yes, rather. . . . 
 She s like the famous lily on the dunghill, . . . 
 for that mother of hers swims in sensuality, . . . 
 breathes it in, ... gives it out ; laps it up out 
 of any puddle, I ll wager. . . . There goes that 
 plump, blue-jowlcd priest for his evening rubber 
 of briscola with her now. . . . Her mows, prob 
 ably, as the village says. It s a stark shame that 
 the girl should have to live in that crawling at 
 mosphere. There s Gigino now, . . . really one 
 of the best chaps I know. . . . And he s quite 
 9 129
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 silly about her already. . . . If she were to marr 
 him, that would be a good solution." 
 
 Then he laughed, emptying his pipe over th 
 railing, and looking at the Sasso di Ferro. 
 
 "Somehow," said he, "I should as soon thin! 
 of your marrying Gigino. But I wonder wha 
 she will do in the end? It isn t easy to foresei 
 the fate of a misplaced creature like that." 
 
 That night, when he fell asleep, he dreamed tha 
 Dione was playing boccie along the alley of moon 
 light with the Sasso di Ferro, which, as she spec 
 the swift gold balls, opened huge jaws of ston< 
 and snapped them up. 
 
 In the mean time the blue-jowled priest ha( 
 taken a turning to the left, out of Kent s line o 
 vision, and was on his way to Ghiffa, and th< 
 partner of Madame Rupin in her evening garni 
 was none other than Cecca. 
 
 Cecca was healthily sleepy after a long day 
 work, for she kept the House of the Weasel as < 
 cat its fur, and this added to her Sciora s ill-humor 
 she being already very cross, because his priesth 
 duties had called her plump friend to Ghiffa. 
 
 "Oca! . . . Owl! ..." cried she, when, fo 
 the fourth time, Cecca, with closed eyes, hac 
 bowed politely to a lead without producing he 
 own card. "Am I to sit here and have my owi 
 servant snore in my face? . . . Wake up thi 
 instant! You do nothing but sleep, as thougl 
 you were already in your dotage ..." 
 
 130
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 " Speriamo bene . . . let us hope for the best," 
 said Cecca, philosophically, and took the lead 
 with the ace of diamonds, which happened to be 
 briscola, or trumps, on this occasion. Now it was 
 early in the hand, and this was really a stupid 
 thing for Cecca to do. 
 
 "You seem to enjoy giving me your cen- 
 tesimi" remarked her mistress, sourly. 
 
 Ciao /"said Cecca. It s all in the day s work." 
 
 "You re an oca ... a goose," said her mis 
 tress again, which in Italian is insulting. 
 
 "Two geese go well together," remarked Cecca, 
 imperturbably. 
 
 With this she caught the ace of spades and the 
 three of hearts in succession an excellent play. 
 "Hold your impertinent tongue or I ll throw it at 
 you," said Madame Rupin, angrily. 
 
 "Two can play at that game also," replied 
 Cecca. Then for the fifth time her broad lids 
 closed, her gay headkerchief drooped forward, 
 and she saluted her mistress s lead with a stately 
 bow and snore. 
 
 Madame Rupin caught up the cards in both 
 hands and flung them in her face. 
 
 "Per bacco!" cried Cecca, springing to her feet. 
 "I ve a mind to slap your hands for you as when 
 you were little. ... I am not a beast of the 
 field for you to abuse. I am a Christian. 
 
 "Act like one, then," said the lady, sullenly, 
 but rather sobered.
 
 "It is an hour that all Christians should be in 
 their beds, and I shall act like one by going to 
 mine," retorted Cecca, and she went toward the 
 door. 
 
 But this Madame Rupin could not endure. 
 She was wide awake, she was very fretful, and 
 she could never remain alone for three minutes 
 together, especially at night. 
 
 "Na, na, Cecca mia," coaxed she, going after 
 her. "Can t you see I m just like a poor, cross 
 baby ? . . . I mean no harm. . . . There s the bit 
 of real lace for neck and sleeves that my friend the 
 Signora Bossi sent me from Venice . . . take that 
 on your way to bed, and think TLO more about it." 
 
 "A fine sight I should be with lace to my gullet 
 and paws," growled Cecca, still wrathful. "That 
 is an ugly custom that you have had ever since 
 you were a child to do one an injury, and^then 
 offer some bit of trash for a salve." 
 
 "Here, then," said her Sciora, with a really 
 heroic effort, for she was a genuine miser and as 
 cunning as a magpie about it, "here is a whole 
 franc. Get with it whatever you like, and be 
 pleasant again." 
 
 "Mph!" was Cecca s only remark. Indeed, 
 Madame Rupin had been known to put a ten- 
 centime piece in a beggar s bowl and take out a 
 five-centime one. It was the second time in her 
 life that her mistress had given her money, and 
 Cecca took the coin and pocketed it. 
 
 132
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "It will do to get the tousetia some fal-lal,", 
 thought she. 
 
 Dione certainly had not many "fal-lals," and 
 when Cecca went over her wardrobe every week 
 to brush and darn, her only consolation for its 
 meagreness was the fact that her Scior had tied 
 up the girl s modest dot before he died so that his 
 wife could not touch it. 
 
 "Very well," she then said, coming back into 
 the room. "But I wish to make it clear that I 
 will not play another game with those cards that 
 you flung in my face." 
 
 "Surely, surely," said her mistress, with 
 unusual meekness. "We will get out the 
 tarot cards instead, and you shall tell my fort 
 une." 
 
 "Yes, it is a Friday, and that is a sure day for 
 them," said Cecca, interested at once in anything 
 occult. 
 
 Madame Rupin took a rather grimy pack of 
 the old fortune - telling cards from the table 
 drawer and handed them to Cecca, who shuffled 
 them elaborately and made her mistress cut them 
 three times. 
 
 "Eh," said she, regarding the first cut, "parole 
 piccanti (sharp words). It seems to me that 
 those have come to pass already. And what is 
 this? A letter? . . . Ciao! . . . and a small 
 sum of money . . . that will probably come in 
 the letter."
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Madame Rupin s bright eyes of a ouisteetee be 
 came brighter. 
 
 "They are good cuts, eh, cam?" said she. 
 
 "Pazienza ... let us wait for the others be 
 fore we say that," replied Cecca. 
 
 She "laid" them peasant fash on. 
 
 "What is in your arms," said she, as she put 
 them down. "What is under your feet, what is 
 coming to you, and what is running after you," 
 and she continued thus until all the cards were 
 on the table in little separate piles. Then lift 
 ing them, she scrutinized each packet closely. 
 
 "What is in your arms," said she, "is a little 
 money, perhaps an illness or a journey, and a 
 priest." 
 
 Madame Rupin darted a sharp, sideward 
 glance. Cecca s face was expressionless. She 
 laid down the cards, however, face up, so that 
 her mistress could see that the card for "priest" 
 was really among them. 
 
 "What is coming is a dark man and a fair man, 
 and some displeasure." 
 
 "Ai, air exclaimed Madame Rupin. "It is 
 the Varoning and the Englishman. . . . Perhaps 
 they are going to quarrel over Dione." 
 
 "Perhaps. These other cards are insignificant. 
 Some woman is jealous of you." The Sciora sim 
 pered . And there is a message about a relative. 
 
 "Perhaps my cousin Peppino is going to die 
 and leave me something." 
 
 134
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "It will be his nightcap, then," said Cecca, 
 "for the priests have got all the rest while he is 
 alive. What is running after you is a marriage." 
 (Madame Rupin nodded vigorously.) "Some 
 fastidi (bothers) and three lovers." (Madame 
 Rupin shrugged.) "Under your feet is chiac- 
 chere (gossip) , a dark man, and a present." 
 
 Minga mal (Not bad) , said the lady. Now 
 do them for Dione." 
 
 Cecca did them for Dione, but they did not 
 come out very satisfactorily. 
 
 "Even the cards won t go right for that girl!" 
 cried her mother, peevishly, mixing them all up 
 as they lay spread on the table. "Madonna 
 mia! Why couldn t she have been a boy? . . . 
 There is Clelia Morelli with a fine son who is the 
 joy of her heart, and he only eighteen and has 
 his ballerina like any other man about town, and 
 earns money which he shares with his mamma 
 . . . while I have only this great, gawky girl who 
 turns up her nose at a rich Scior like the Varon- 
 ing. . . . God help her if the Englishman don t 
 take her!" 
 
 "You speak because you have a mouth, and 
 not because there is any reason in your words at 
 all," said Cecca, indignantly. "That English 
 man or any other man may thank the Virgin on 
 his two knees if such a fine girl as your daughter 
 deigns to look at him. You do not deserve to 
 have such a daughter, and some day God will
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 punish you properly for speaking and feeling as 
 you do about her!" 
 
 "You are always taking my words crossways," 
 protested her mistress. "Shouldn t a mother be 
 anxious to see her daughter well married ? And 
 shouldn t she be vexed when her daughter won t 
 go to a single ball or party, or anywhere that 
 she might meet eligible young men, and then 
 when two come dropping out of the clouds, as 
 it were, right on her nose, she turns it up at 
 them?" 
 
 "You should be more exact," said Cecca. "It 
 does not seem to me that she turns up her nose at 
 the Englishman." 
 
 "Does it not? Does it not? . . . You think 
 that she likes him, cara miaf . . . You know her 
 so much better than I do." 
 
 "And that s a nice thing for a mother to say, 
 but the Madonna knows that, this time, you are 
 exact." 
 
 "But do you? Do you?" 
 
 "They certainly appear to me to get on quite 
 well together," admitted Cecca, grudgingly. 
 
 "Oh, if it would only come to pass!" cried the 
 other, clasping her small hands. "He is rich, 
 and a great Scior in his own country, you must 
 know, Cecca." 
 
 "And is that all you ask for in the husband of 
 your only child ?" said Cecca. "Besides, you are 
 strangely willing to believe hearsay, it seems 
 
 136
 
 to me, when it comes to choosing this hus 
 band." 
 
 "Cecca! Cecca!" cried Madame Rupin, seiz 
 ing her arm. "Let me implore you ... en 
 courage it! . . . encourage it! ... Don t put 
 any notions in her head more than she has there 
 already. The Varonis are great Sciori in Milan, 
 and what they have told me about him you may 
 believe. Do not do anything to interfere, for the 
 love of God. Promise me." 
 
 "I shall do nothing against the child s happi 
 ness, you may be sure," said Cecca, tartly. "It 
 would be better that you should do something for 
 it while she is with you. Never have I seen a 
 peasant woman so anxious to fling her child into 
 the arms of the first man who comes along as you 
 are. I believe that peasants are better mothers 
 than Sciori, anyway. And the Virgin hears me." 
 
 With this she put back the tarot cards in the 
 drawer, shut it with a bang, lit two candles, and 
 bore her mistress protesting off to the bed, beside 
 which she had to sit nodding until that exacting 
 lady fell asleep. 
 
 All this time Dione, at her open window in her 
 nightgown, had been gazing at Pan s Mountain, 
 and living over what was certainly the most re 
 markable day of her life. 
 
 She had spoken as she had never been able to 
 speak before, even to Cecca, and some one had 
 
 37
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 listened as sympathetically as even Cecca did and 
 with far more comprehension. Yes . . . and he 
 had called her a poet ... a poet had called her 
 a poet. It was not so, of course ... he was 
 mistaken . . . her fancies were not poems, but 
 all the same it was delightful to think that he 
 had called her so. And she liked him. She was 
 quite sure that she liked him now. Ever since it 
 had occurred to her that her father would have 
 liked him she had been quite sure of her own feel 
 ing toward him. . . . Was he the mate that Pan 
 had sent her ? . . . Was he ? Was he ? . . . 
 
 Love had never touched the girl, though she 
 guessed right well what love might be, and she 
 was certainly not in love with this Englishman 
 who looked so glad to be alive and laughed so 
 joyously. But she might be ... yes, that was 
 very possible. . . . And how strong he was and 
 tall. A man . . . yes, a man. If she were to 
 dance with him she could not look down upon the 
 top of his head, that was certain. Yes . . . she 
 was tall and dark, and he was tall and fair. If 
 we were to love each other and to marry we would 
 have splendid sons," reflected Dione, the candid. 
 Then she said, "Evoe Pan !" to the Sasso di Ferro, 
 and went also to her bed.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 KENT called two or three times on the Rupins 
 during the next fortnight, but he went late 
 in the afternoon when his work was over, and he 
 did not see Dione except casually in the presence 
 of other visitors, until the second Friday follow 
 ing the day of their walk to the Trinita. 
 
 On this afternoon he went down toward five 
 o clock for his usual swim in the lake, and when 
 he reached the Osteria del Pesce d Oro, there was 
 Dione on the beach in a much-worn, white serge 
 bathing-dress, with Cecca keeping guard. 
 
 Then Kent was exceedingly glad that he had 
 brought his own bathing-suit with him, though 
 he had left it with Ping s relative in the osteria 
 after the first day, and adopted the little striped 
 breeks usually worn on the lake. He scurried 
 into this neglected costume now, and ran down 
 to the shore. 
 
 What luck, Signorina ! called he. "We shall 
 have a famous swim together if you really swim 
 as well as you play boccie." 
 
 Cecca, who was standing close to Dione, hold 
 ing her young Sciora s cloak over one shoulder
 
 PAN S MOUNTAI N 
 
 and knitting on a massive green stocking, gave 
 him a piercing glance. She seemed reassured by 
 what she saw, for to herself she said, Ciao ! The 
 Virgin prosper it," and went on with her knitting. 
 
 "I can swim better than I can play boccie," 
 said Dione to Kent, "and I am only waiting for 
 Ping to bring me a pair of new cord-sandals from 
 Ghiffa, because the sole has worn off from one 
 of mine, and it is not possible to walk on this 
 beach in bare feet." 
 
 "No, truly," said Kent. "I tried it the first 
 day and cut my foot quite a bit." 
 
 He liked her careless pose as she sat with her 
 feet stretched out in front of her on a tuft of 
 grass. She wore, no stockings, and her young 
 Dian s legs shone firm and polished from the 
 knee down. Kent smiled, recalling the lines of 
 buxom old Herrick, in which he praises his 
 "Julia s Icgge" for being "as white and hairlesse 
 as an egge." What a gorgeous young pagan she 
 was, to be sure! as unself conscious, as clean- 
 cut, as fearless. 
 
 Here Cecca said: 
 
 "Will you please, Sciora Dione, to look at that 
 sky?" 
 
 She pointed with her needles, and both turned 
 and looked at the sky toward Laveno. It was 
 darkening ominously under a great hood of cloud. 
 
 "It looks as though there might be a temporale 
 (thunder-storm) later," said Dione. 
 
 140
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Not much later," said Cecca. " Soon, is the 
 word for what is coming, in my opinion. You 
 had better think twice before you go for that 
 swim of yours." 
 
 "Oh, to swim in the beginning of a temper ale! 
 ... I should love that," said Dione. 
 
 "Yes, you have a gift of loving what is not best 
 for you," grumbled her nurse. 
 
 "By Jove! ... I should like that, too," ex 
 claimed Kent. "How fast it s coming!" 
 
 Here Ping arrived breathless, the new sandals 
 extended before him. 
 
 "Your shoes, Sciora Dione," panted he; "but 
 only look what a big fellow is coming yonder. 
 . . . You won t take your swim in the teeth of 
 that boy." 
 
 "Give me the shoes, please," said Dione. 
 "Yes, I am going to swim before the storm 
 breaks, and this Signore is coming with me." 
 
 "Hin mat!" (They re crazy!) cried Ping, turn 
 ing helplessly to Cecca. 
 
 "If you want her to do a thing, just urge her 
 not to," replied she. "But when the teeth are 
 shut the tongue keeps warm, so I say no more." 
 
 The inverna, already strong, was increasing 
 every moment. The mountains took on a sullen 
 blue and the water a livid olive color. 
 
 Dione had slipped on the new shoes, and, now 
 standing up, began to walk toward the lake. Pier 
 head was wound about three times by a snood of 
 
 141
 
 black ribbon, leaving free only a few short locks 
 to lift and fringe out in the wind. She waded in 
 for a few yards, then threw herself forward as 
 upon a lover s breast. Kent went in beside her, 
 and they began to swim, stroke for stroke, tow 
 ard the coming storm. 
 
 They heard the dull artillery of thunder far off 
 toward Milan, then nearer; then came a lurid 
 flicker over all the southeastern sky, as though 
 a valkyr s stallion had nickered his gold hide. 
 There was a nearer flash, more lancelike now. 
 The air fiends were using spears. As they clove 
 on through the heaping waves, now in the trough, 
 now buoyant on a crest, the dark Stone of Iron 
 seemed to swell, to tower, to topple toward 
 them. 
 
 "Are you afraid of the lightning?" asked 
 Kent. Shall we turn back ?" 
 
 "I like what frightens," answered she, "but 
 I am never afraid of lightning." 
 
 They had to shout to make themselves heard 
 above the thunder and the wind that snatched 
 the words from their lips. 
 
 And now the Storm Witch came at a bound, 
 with skirts spread in either hand. She howled, 
 and shook out her hair, and the sky was darkened 
 to the zenith. Above Laveno a flag of green 
 glare unrolled. The lake quaked and quickened 
 . . . showed its fangs. All the clouds, so long 
 forming on the Lombard plain, pressed forward 
 
 142
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 together, a great clan, gathering to the drums of 
 thunder and the trumpets of the wind. 
 
 "This is living!" said Kent, and Dione, in her 
 heart, said, "Evoe Pan! ... It is my mate! . . . 
 It is my mate!" 
 
 Then all at once, with an unspeakable glare 
 that blinded them for the moment, Pan s Moun 
 tain seemed to split from crown to base, and spat 
 forth a stream of liquid fire. 
 
 Immediately after, a vague sound of shouting 
 reached them. He looked round and saw Cecca 
 waving frantic arms at the edge of the water. 
 
 "Your old nurse is frightened . . . Shall we 
 go back?" he said. 
 
 Dione turned at once, and, urged by the fierce 
 waves, they won easily to shore. 
 
 Masciett, who had been scouting along the 
 beach, uttering his high-pitched, throaty wolf- 
 cry of anxiety from time to time, sprang into the 
 lake and swam some yards to meet them. 
 
 He leaped upon Dione, licking her wet hands, 
 fondling them with open jaws and delicate press 
 ure of teeth, as though he had thought never to 
 see her again. 
 
 Cecca, scolding, cast the long cloak about her, 
 and all three, with the dog still leaping in ecstasy, 
 hurried into the osteria. 
 
 And now the cloud burst, and the rain came 
 with the wild violence of an angry woman s tears. 
 The windows thrummed, the waves were shat- 
 
 143
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 tered. They were shut as in a streaming sphere 
 of gray crystal. Mountains, shore, the near trees 
 all disappeared as by a wand-wave. 
 
 "Zia," said Ping to his old aunt, with a lordly 
 gesture, after Dione and Kent had changed their 
 bathing-suits and descended again, "bring wine 
 and cake . . . these Sciori need refreshment 
 after such a bath as that." 
 
 All drank some of the rough, acrid red wine 
 that Ping persisted in calling "Chianti," but they 
 would have no cakes, and a very little of the wine 
 sufficed. 
 
 "Ancora, ancora," urged Ping. "Water for 
 the skin perhaps, but wine for the vitals. Eh! 
 The Sciori are like our saying about risotto . . . 
 It flourished in water, it must be drowned in 
 wine. ... I pray you, drink . . . drink ..." 
 
 And when they refused with many "Crazies," 
 he undertook the task for them. 
 
 " Alia sua salute," said he, pompously, and pro 
 ceeded to gulp glass after glass, chattering in be 
 tween. As he had already imbibed freely of beer 
 in Ghiffa with a friend, these potations soon had 
 their effect. 
 
 The poor zia looked anxious , and conferred in 
 low tones with Cecca, who said, "Ma!" and 
 "Bestial" (Beast) at gruff intervals, and often 
 opened the door to see whether the storm was 
 abating so that they could make their escape. 
 
 "Aid!" gushed Ping. " Tis well that you 
 144
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 should shelter even in my poor inn during such 
 a storm as this. Sixty trees did I see go down at 
 the Villa Ada in just such a buff within eight 
 minutes. Crrrk! Paff There they were lying 
 on the ground like a man with a pain in his belly 
 . . . and they were not common trees . . . but, 
 Sciori, as one might say . . . brought from all 
 parts of the world. . . . Christofen! that was a 
 sight. . . ." 
 
 "Does he annoy you?" said Kent, aside to 
 Dione. 
 
 "No, he is only a little tipsy. Let him 
 talk." 
 
 "Aia! Aia!" continued the Ping, "to think of 
 a young Sciora and a forestiero going to swim in 
 the teeth of a storm like this! One would say 
 that they were saved for something . . . for each 
 other, perhaps . . . excuse my little jest . . . 
 one gets jolly in a storm like this. Zzt! It goes 
 through one s blood like the lightning through the 
 air. . . . Drink, Sciora . . . drink, Scior, I pray 
 you. Drink with me to your own health and a 
 fine wedding!" 
 
 Bestial" said Cecca in his ear, with the angry 
 whisper of a bee that has blundered into an 
 empty jug, "you re ciuch (drunk). If you don t 
 shut up, I m a strong woman, and I ll lug you off 
 and put you to bed ..." 
 
 "She says I m ciuch," announced Ping, with a 
 rapturous smile. "Now hear the truth ... all 
 
 10 145
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 people who call others drunk are always drunk 
 themselves ..." 
 
 What Cecca would have replied to this will 
 never be known, for here the door opened, and 
 Varoni, who had only that day returned from 
 England, came into the room. He looked pale, 
 and his kindly eyes were anxious. He carried 
 two umbrellas, and over his arm was a soggy mass 
 of shawls. 
 
 " Per bacco, Gigino!" said Kent. "Did you 
 swim here?" 
 
 "Very nearly," replied his friend, smiling with 
 relief as he caught sight of Dione. "Come, stai, 
 car of ... I am delighted to see you here under 
 shelter, Signorina. Your Signora Mamma was 
 very alarmed. She thought that you might even 
 be in the lake." 
 
 "I have been in the lake," said Dione, "but 
 I would naturally come out again in such a storm. 
 . . . You are most kind, Signore, to come to see 
 about me. Is it possible that la mamma sent you 
 out in such weather? I am very, very sorry." 
 
 Dione knew exactly how anxious Madame 
 Rupin had been, and why she had sent poor 
 Varoni down the mountain-side in a temporale, 
 and she knew, moreover, that Kent also knew. 
 She felt such a dumb rage against her mother as 
 shook her inwardly. 
 
 "Eh, la Peppa!" cried Ping, before Varoni 
 could do more than begin his protestations. 
 
 146
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Here are two goldfish in the Pesce d Oro for 
 the first time! Dip in your pretty net, Sciora 
 Dione! If one escapes you ll get t other!" 
 
 "Ping," said Dione, calmly, "you are very 
 drunk, indeed. You will go away at once." 
 
 "I go," said Ping, weaving a devious way to 
 the door of an inner room, "but do not forget to 
 take my advice, Sciora. Dip in your net! . . . 
 Dip in your net!" 
 
 Kent had a real heart-leap of admiration at the 
 girl s manner. He thought that she behaved as 
 a young queen might whose chamberlain had 
 suddenly gone daft and struck her in the pres 
 ence of ambassadors. 
 
 She, in the mean time, was looking quietly out 
 of the window. I think, she now said, turning 
 round, "that we shall be able to start in a few 
 moments. These sudden storms on the lake 
 often go as quickly as they come." 
 
 And indeed within fifteen minutes they were 
 able to return to Vareggio. 
 
 They managed to survive the nauseously sweet 
 gratitude of Madame Rupin for the restoration 
 of her "Only joy," her "Only treasure," and 
 Varoni returned with Kent to his lodgings in 
 Ceredo.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 FORD! What a creature to have mothered 
 
 I* that girl!" exclaimed Kent, as they 
 tramped off together. "I can t get over it." 
 
 "Yes, is it not so, caro mio?" asked Varoni, 
 eagerly. "But the father must have been a re 
 markable man. ... Of the Servian nobility, per 
 haps. . . . For she is like a young empress, is she 
 not?" 
 
 "Like a whole bunch of them, with an abbess 
 or two thrown in ... for I don t think I ever 
 saw any one before that I thought capable of 
 quelling a convent of obstreperous nuns. I 
 should think that she s about equal to any situa 
 tion in which she might find herself. . . . Did 
 you ever see anything so perfect as her behavior 
 when that little oaf began his coarse jests ? . . . 
 By Jove! That girl s got a destiny, I should 
 think, though I can t for the life of me guess what 
 it may be." 
 
 "It would be very easy to guess if I could have 
 my part in it," said Varoni, simply. 
 
 "Eh, Gigino! . . . You are gone this time, 
 aren t you?" said Kent, hooking a boyish arm 
 
 148
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 in his friend s and smiling down at him. "Up 
 to the eyes . . . over the brain . . . eh, Gigino 
 mio?" 
 
 If you mean that I am deeply and seriously in 
 love," said Varoni, soberly, "it is true." 
 
 Do you mean to say that you d have no hesi 
 tation about marrying a girl with a mother like 
 that?" 
 
 "I mean," said Varoni, unlinking his arm from 
 Kent s, and standing still in the road the better 
 to look into his eyes "I mean that I would 
 marry the Signorina Rupin, no matter how ob 
 jectionable her relatives might be." 
 
 You re abrick, Gigino !" saidhis friend.warmly. 
 
 "Whether I am a brick or not, that is the way 
 I feel," returned Varoni. 
 
 "Eh, Lord! . . . But you re cocksure," said 
 Kent, with a sigh, as they walked on. 
 
 "It seems to me that in such a case, to be 
 cocksure, as you call it, is the only way," re 
 plied Varoni. 
 
 "You remind me of the chap in Hudibras," 
 said Kent, laughing. " No dread could cool his 
 courage from vent ring on that dragon marriage. 
 . . . And even if you should live happy ever 
 after the mother would be plenty of dragon." 
 
 "There are means," said Varoni, seriously, "by 
 which the mother could be suppressed. It does 
 not seem to me that the Signorina Rupin idolizes 
 
 her mother." 
 
 149
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "No," admitted Kent, "I shouldn t call it 
 idolatry. She wouldn t be the girl she is if she 
 didn t see through that flimsy little doll." 
 
 "And yet," said Varoni, "she treats her with 
 perfect respect." 
 
 "Of course. We ve agreed that she is a 
 remarkable and distinguished personality. 
 Well ..." He sighed again and gave a long 
 stretch, clasping his hands above his head and 
 straining it backward he never wore head 
 gear of any sort in these mountains. "Well, . . . 
 all my auguri, but I must say you re tackling a 
 big job, in my humble opinion." 
 
 "You mean the mother?" 
 
 "I mean both, my dear. The mother . . . 
 Ciao! as you say here. I suppose that you and 
 your own lady mother could squash her into bear- 
 ableness between you . . . but the daughter. . . . 
 Why, my child,, she d rule you with a rod of iron." 
 
 "I d kiss the rod, then," said Varoni, smiling. 
 
 "Gad! ... I believe you would, . . . and en 
 joy it, too. You d probably even make it blos 
 som, iron or no iron, in the temperature of such 
 a love as yours. But would it be good for her ? 
 You ve got to think of the effect upon her, you 
 know," Kent wound up, mischievously. "She s 
 very young, and, though it s hard to believe, I 
 suppose her character isn t formed yet." 
 
 "I do not think," said Varoni, "that anything 
 could injure her character." 
 
 150
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Carissimo mio, to hear you, one would think 
 that you had never been inoculated. A worse 
 case I never saw." 
 
 " Inoculated? " 
 
 "Yes . . . with love, my dear. When one has 
 had scarlatina, I believe that one cannot have 
 scarlet-fever so terribly. But your fever is ver 
 milion, crimson, magenta ..." 
 
 "I suppose," said Varoni, "that a man in love 
 seems always a little ridiculous to one who is out 
 of love, even if that man happens to be his best 
 friend." 
 
 "Now, Gigino, no huffiness. . . . Don t add 
 the crowning symptom to your distemper by 
 squabbling with me. I m bound to talk in my 
 own fashion or shut up. Besides, you know that 
 a thing as big as this can t happen to you without 
 affecting me earnestly. Aren t you used to the 
 Anglo-Saxon in me yet?" 
 
 "I dare say," replied Varoni, rather wistfully, 
 "that I have not a keen sense of humor." 
 
 Hang humor !" said Kent. I ll be as grave 
 as Athene s owl from this on. Don t shut in on 
 yourself, old chap; you ll nip my feelers in the 
 process if you do. I ve a whimsical way of think 
 ing, as a rule, and with you I just think aloud, 
 that s all. Capisci?" 
 
 "Capisco," said Varoni, and gave his friend an 
 affectionate glance from his kindly black eyes. 
 They had reached Kent s lodgings by this time,
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 and, mounting the little stone staircase, en 
 sconced themselves on the balcony, Kent with 
 his usual pipe, Varoni with a long, black "Vir 
 ginia," through which ran a straw. "That is the 
 most ferocious weed for so mild a man," laughed 
 Kent. "It makes me sneeze even through my 
 pipe smoke. How you can get through it with 
 out convulsions of nature I can t see." 
 
 "It is perhaps because I am used to it," said 
 Varoni. 
 
 Before many minutes they were back on the 
 subject of Dione again. 
 
 "Alareec," said Varoni, suddenly, looking 
 rather shy, "there is one reason why I have 
 spoken so openly to you . . . even to the extent 
 of boring you a little, I fear ..." 
 
 "We ve cut out that, you know," said Kent. 
 
 "Very well. But I must tell you this reason. 
 It was ... it is ..." 
 
 He hesitated, then went on in a rush. 
 
 "How is it possible, I ask myself, that you have 
 seen much of this young girl during the last 
 month, and yet are not in love with her?" 
 
 "Gigino," said Kent, earnestly, "in your state 
 of mind it would naturally seem impossible to 
 you ; nevertheless, let me assure you that it is a 
 fact. I admire her with all my might in truth, 
 I can honestly say that I never admired any 
 woman more, young or old; but as for being in 
 love . . . my dear man, you are an Italian, and 
 
 152
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 you should know that it s the little things and 
 not the big things that usually cause a man to 
 fall in love, as one says. . . . Venus might ap 
 pear, a pearl of pearls in her sea-shell, and if she 
 had not just that subtle, inexplicable something 
 . . . that word sesame to whisper in a man s 
 ear, why . . . she might as well have lain perdue 
 at the bottom of the ocean for all the power she 
 would have over him. . . . Signorina Rupin is a 
 splendid creature, but for me she hasn t that cer 
 tain something I spoke of. I m like a man," he 
 ended, whimsical again, in spite of himself, "who 
 has a figurative cold in his head, and so is unaf 
 fected by the perfume of even the Rose of the 
 World." 
 
 Varoni took a sober whiff of his "Virginia," 
 which required both art and practice to keep alight. 
 
 "I am exceedingly glad that this is so," said 
 he, "because it has caused me some bad moments, 
 thinking that we might be in love with the same 
 woman." 
 
 "You blessed old chap!" exclaimed Kent. 
 "Think of that, now!" 
 
 "Yes, to me it would have been a real blow," 
 said Varoni. "But now all is clear between us. 
 I can go ahead with a free heart." 
 
 "Go ahead by all means, and the Virgin pros 
 per you. But, if I may say so without being in 
 discreet, I d go ahead a bit slowly. . . . Festina 
 lente, as the old motto has it."
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Why?" asked Varoni. 
 
 "Well, do you know, that young lady doesn t 
 seem the sort of person to hustle, " replied Kent. 
 "If I were in your place I d make pretty sure 
 that she cared, also, before I spoke." 
 
 "That is not so important with a young Italian 
 girl," said Varoni. "They generally care after 
 ward, not before." 
 
 Kent sprang up in real consternation, stand 
 ing with his back against the railing, and gazing 
 down into the other s face. 
 
 "Man . . . man . . ." said he, "do you tell 
 me that you re going to stake your whole life s 
 happiness on a throw with loaded dice ? Gigino, 
 upon my word I thought you had more gumption 
 than that." 
 
 "What is gumption ?" 
 
 " Gumption is a sort of dialect for savoir 
 faire, worldly wisdom, the common sense that 
 comes from experience. But I could shake you 
 for sitting there and looking at me so serenely 
 with that preposterous notion in your head. 
 Marry that girl, and expect love to come after! 
 . . . Why, my dear, if she didn t love you and 
 love you mighty hard to begin with, she d hang 
 you up over the bed in her girdle as Brunhild 
 hung what s-his-name on their wedding-night. 
 . . . Why, she s the sort to be wooed with sword 
 and flame. . . . Garel If she doesn t love you 
 beforehand! And you with your little, old-
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 wives nonsense about love coming after. Love 
 comes after only when it comes like Jill tumbling 
 down-hill after Jack. You put me past all pa 
 tience ! . . . Just you try it, my dear, and when 
 you re a frozen mass of vain tears, and sit trying 
 to thaw out over the cool stove of conjugal af 
 fection, think of me and my winged words!" 1 
 
 Varoni looked at him thoughtfully, and took 
 another whiff of his "Virginia." 
 
 "You would know how to woo her," he said, 
 at last. 
 
 "I?" said Kent, feeling foolish. 
 
 "Yes, Alareec, you. Be careful that she does 
 not become more interested in you than you are 
 in her." 
 
 "Man alive!" cried Kent, thoroughly irritated, 
 "you talk as if I were some gaudy masher, or 
 girl-killing actor in the last tragedy. . . . I ve 
 just about as much cause to be careful with the 
 Signorina Rupin as . . ." 
 
 "You have," he was about to say, but broke 
 off in time. 
 
 " ... as the Pope has," he ended, lamely. 
 
 "As I have, you were going to say, were you 
 not?" asked his friend, undisturbed. "That is 
 very true where I am concerned. I have only 
 seen the young lady twice, and I am not a ro 
 mantic figure . . . whereas, you are certainly a 
 very romantic figure, and have seen her con 
 stantly for a month."
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "A romantic figure! ... Oh, Lord!" groaned 
 Kent. 
 
 "It is true," insisted Varoni. "A very ro 
 mantic figure good-looking, fair, a poet of re 
 nown, a ..." 
 
 "Shut up," ordered Kent, exasperated, "or 
 I ll drop you over the balcony, chair and all, 
 right onto the Sciora Laura s verbena-bed! It 
 takes you Latins in an analytical mood to make 
 a chap feel an out-and-out ass. ... Of all the 
 forlorn nonsense ..." 
 
 He went inside growling, and fetched a fresh 
 pipe which he proceeded to light, still muttering 
 in between puffs. 
 
 "There is no use showing temper, caro mio," 
 said Varoni, with the gentle stolidity which often 
 served him well. "Such things have to be con 
 sidered, and I ask you to reflect how you would 
 feel if so charming and unusual a girl became un 
 happy on your account?" 
 
 "Oh, damn!" said Kent; and then to temper 
 the remark, added: "That s the sixth match I ve 
 spent on this beastly pipe." 
 
 "Yes, I ask you that," repeated Varoni, un 
 moved. 
 
 "And I ask you how you d feel if I really did 
 drop you onto those verbenas? . . . My fingers 
 are itching for it." 
 
 "Well," said Varoni, resignedly, "if you won t 
 answer, you won t. And since you are not in 
 
 156
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 love with her, I know that you will be careful 
 with her for my sake." 
 
 "You know a precious lot," growled Kent 
 "enough to knock out the average savant, I 
 should say." 
 
 And when Varoni said "Prego?" he replied, 
 curtly : 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Well, oao," said Varoni, a few minutes later, 
 "I feel much better for our little talk, and I 
 must be returning to Pallanza or the mamma will 
 grow anxious. Yes, I feel infinitely better since 
 we have talked frankly together." 
 
 "You ve the advantage of me, then," retorted 
 Kent ; but he mumbled so with the pipe in a cor 
 ner of his mouth that Varoni said "Prego?" 
 again. 
 
 "I say all right. Glad you feel so jolly," re 
 plied Kent. 
 
 "Not jolly precisely," said Varoni, "but 
 easier in my mind more satisfied." 
 
 "May the Lord go on being good to you." 
 
 "Thank you, Alareeco mio, e ciaoT 
 
 "Ciao!" said Kent. 
 
 They had a good hand-clasp, and Varoni went 
 away, leaving Kent to the company of his pipe 
 and the Sasso di Ferro.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 KENT soon finished his pipe, and stood with 
 folded arms upon the balcony - rail, watch 
 ing the triumphing Maggiore spread glory over 
 the late battle-field of earth, and air, and water. 
 Down from the Alps of Switzerland it came, 
 straight from the north, and the sullen mareng 
 fled before it, a thing in tatters. So clear was the 
 yellow sky that it seemed a great jasper being 
 purified in some blast-furnace of the upper gods. 
 Against it the mountains stood out clear-cut and 
 fresh, as though just created. The Sasso reared 
 aloft its drenched, dark folds, a giant refreshed 
 with the strong wine of tempest. 
 
 Yet Kent was not thinking of the beauty upon 
 which he stared. He was musing upon the heart 
 of man, that organ so deceitful and desperately 
 wicked. 
 
 "Othello said goats and monkeys, " thought 
 he, in his usual, rather whimsical fashion. "I 
 won t go as far as that, but I do say apes and 
 peacocks. . . . Yes, all of us ... men and 
 women and children, too. I won t let them off, 
 
 158
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 either. . . . The kingdom of heaven will have 
 to be reconstructed if it is of such as your 
 modern kid. . . . Yes ... in all of us ... 
 something of the ape ... something of the 
 peacock. . . . And where did I get that apes 
 and peacocks, by-the-way? ... Oh yes! . . . 
 I remember . . . And once in three years 
 came the navy of Tharsish, bringing gold and 
 silver, ivory and apes and peacocks. ... I 
 asked a chap once who had written that, and 
 he guessed Oscar Wilde. ... It wasn t poor 
 Wilde, though ... it was just the historian of 
 King Solomon in the first Book of Kings. . . . 
 Yes, and they were coals to Newcastle, too, for 
 there was the king, with apes and peacocks by 
 the hundred already in his heart. . . . One man 
 among a thousand he had found, said he, but 
 not a woman among all those. O king, live 
 forever! . . . With permission, you did not seek 
 her with your usual wisdom. . . . Who were you, 
 with your love of strange women your Moa- 
 bites, and Ammonites, and Edomites, and Zi- 
 donians . . . your Pharaoh s daughter and your 
 seven hundred wives princesses and three hun 
 dred concubines. . . . Who were you, I say, that 
 the woman in a thousand should reveal herself 
 to you? That is the punishment of men and 
 kings who love nine hundred and ninety-nine 
 strange women, that the thousandth woman is 
 not found of them. ... At least, it is so dreamt
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 of in my philosophy. . . . And here am I, with 
 the ape chittcring in my car, and the peacock 
 ruffling in my breast, all because a man I truly 
 love is in love with a woman whom I do not love, 
 and is like to win her. . . . But he wouldn t have 
 swum in that storm with her as I did! . . . 
 There goes the Peacock. . . . Never will he light 
 those cool eyes of hers. . . . That s my brave 
 Ape. ... Is it because it seems a sort of waste 
 that that elemental creature should keep the 
 embers on little Gigino s hearth and bear his tem 
 perate children? That s part of it. . . . Yes. 
 . . . But the Ape has more to say than that, and 
 the Peacock, too. . . . Gigino is the salt of the 
 earth, but one craves a little pepper now and 
 then. . . . It s a man, a man, a man should woo 
 that woman. She should be haled by the hair of 
 her head upon his saddle-bow, and away with 
 them both into the night, as the great Magyar 
 rode off with the wood-cutter s daughter in the 
 dark backward and abysm of time. . . . Yes 
 . . . she hails from there . . . from the dark 
 backward and abysm of time. . . . Thousands 
 of years has her soul slept in that womb, and 
 now, though she s born into the flesh again, she 
 will not truly waken except under the kiss of 
 kisses. . . . Can Gigino . . . little, kindly, mod 
 erate, reasonable, admirable Gigino give her that 
 kiss ? I doubt it. Could I ? ... If I loved her 
 . . . even with the half of love ? Could I ? . . . 
 
 1 60
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Could I? ... And there are Ape and Peacock 
 singing together like some burnt-out morning 
 stars in a dawn of the Inferno. . . . Like all 
 the wicked who are impotent themselves, they 
 crave the sweet sight of apeness and peacockness 
 in others. . . . What a beast I am even to think 
 such thoughts!" he broke off in sound, every 
 day English. "As for the reality, I wouldn t 
 harm a hair of her or Gigino s heads, and that 
 much, thank God! is known even to the Ape 
 and the Peacock." 
 
 He shook himself vigorously, and went down 
 stairs to ask Pedring, who was a sailorman by 
 profession, and only stopping with his mother 
 until his Scior came to Pallanza, about the little 
 sail-boat that he was trying to hire. 
 
 Another month went by, during which Kent 
 saw very little either of Varoni or the Rupins. 
 The creative fever was at its hottest now, and he 
 could not think or speak except in the personae 
 of his characters. Scenes, phrases came to him 
 in swimming, while eating, as he fell asleep, as he 
 woke. They were like a swarm of locusts feeding 
 on the field of his identity. He was only the 
 vehicle of his creations had no longer any part 
 in himself. 
 
 Then, as usual, in the midst of this soaring 
 mood, came the reaction and the need of his 
 fellows. 
 
 Varoni was in Milan for a few days, but he 
 ii 161
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 knew that Dione would enjoy coming with him 
 for a sail in the Libellula the little English cut 
 ter that Varoni had succeeded in finding for him 
 on Como. 
 
 She had only come to her buoy before the 
 Osteria del Pesce d Oro two days ago, and this 
 morning there was a light and steady tramon- 
 tana, that promised hours of good sailing. 
 
 So he went betimes to the House of the 
 Weasel, and formally invited the Signora and 
 Signorina Rupin to accompany him. The Sig 
 nora, he well knew, would have to be carried by 
 force upon any sail-boat whatever, but the Sig 
 norina, as he had foreseen, was frankly delighted 
 with the idea. 
 
 As they rowed out to her in Ping s sloppy little 
 dingey her own was still at Taroni s being 
 painted Dione gazed at the pretty craft as some 
 women gaze at jewels. 
 
 "Do you like her?" asked Kent. "A neat 
 little minx, isn t she?" 
 
 "She is beautiful," said Dione. "She looks 
 like a lovely musical instrument." 
 
 "She s a bit narrow in the beam, and carries 
 more canvas than she ought to. That makes her 
 heel over a good deal in a stiff breeze like this. 
 ... It won t make you nervous?" 
 
 "I am never nervous," said Dione. "Besides, 
 you forget that I can swim." 
 
 "Rather not!" said Kent, smiling. "I never 
 162
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 saw a woman who could outswim you, and there 
 are good swimmers in England." 
 
 "Did you not?" said Dione, and she looked 
 pleased. 
 
 She knew enough about sailing to take the 
 tiller on necessary occasions, to bring her about 
 when ordered, and to keep her on a straight 
 course, so that they two went alone. 
 
 "Pedring would have come, but I thought it 
 would be jollier with just ourselves," said Kent, 
 as he came back to the cockpit after hoisting 
 the jib, and the Libellula dipped and courtesied, 
 heeling over in the steady breeze as she left the 
 buoy. 
 
 "Will you keep her a little longer, or shall I 
 take the tiller?" 
 
 "I like to feel her, if you don t mind," said 
 Dione. "She seems breathing . . . she seems 
 alive. . . . The wind is like a soul in the sails." 
 
 Kent looked at her, charmed. She really was 
 an inspiriting companion. 
 
 "Well," said he, "just keep her nose on that 
 big gray scar in the Sasso that will be our tack 
 for a good bit." 
 
 He had intended reading to her the sketch that 
 he had made of her story of Diana, but now the 
 charm of her alertness as she held the tiller and 
 watched the sail kept him from suggesting it. 
 
 The breeze stiffened ; the motion was a quick 
 ening joy. Wave after wave, shattered by the 
 
 163
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 bow, stung back in spray that reached him some 
 times as he sat above the cockpit to windward. 
 And he watched the breeze, spreading from the 
 horizon in iron-blue streaked with white, until, 
 with hurrying shivers, it was upon them, and the 
 rail down and the foam sluicing along the coam 
 ing and spurting over it. 
 
 "You d better bring her up a bit," he warned. 
 
 As he spoke the whiteca.ps gleamed from a 
 darker patch of blue, and the Libellula careened 
 at an alarming angle with a sudden tumble of 
 solid water inside her. 
 
 Dione jerked the boat a little too much into 
 the wind, and the sails shook nervously, as an 
 impatient horse shakes his bits. She did not ex 
 cuse herself, however, which was characteristic 
 though she had kept the bowsprit on the scar, as 
 Kent had bade her but sat silent, her eyes in 
 tent upon the now steady sail and the lake to 
 windward. Kent watched her for some mo 
 ments, then he said: 
 
 "But surely you must have steered a sail-boat 
 many a time before?" 
 
 "Yes, long ago. . . . Why do you say that? 
 Is it because you think that I am steering better 
 now?" 
 
 "You are steering wonderfully well. I didn t 
 think we should have such a smart breeze or I d 
 have taken in a reef." 
 
 "Will you do it now?" 
 164
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 : No, not now that I see how you can steer. 
 Really you re wonderful." 
 
 Dione gave him a half smile. 
 
 "Since you think so much of me as that," she 
 then said, "I ll tell you that you had better reef 
 her or come about. We are getting rather close 
 to Pan s Mountain, and Pan doesn t permit 
 familiarities ..." 
 
 Kent glanced at the lowering pile right ahead. 
 
 "It does look pretty grim, doesn t it?" he ad 
 mitted. "By Jove! See that puff! ... It s all 
 white! . . ." 
 
 This time she did not glance at him, but, all 
 tense, met the breath of the mountain with half 
 the mainsail shaking. 
 
 Brava /"he could not help exclaiming. And 
 now we ll come about." 
 
 If he admired her in an expected phase, she 
 admired him no less frankly as he braced himself 
 and tugged at the jib with bare forearms, his 
 spray - drenched shirt moulded to his straining 
 back, powerful at the shoulders and tapering lean 
 at the waist. His friend Varoni could not have 
 pulled home a sheet like that, although he might 
 be an excellent swordsman. 
 
 What kind of a boat did you learn to sail in ?" 
 asked Kent, as he came and took up his old 
 position near her. 
 
 "It was a very droll sort of boat, indeed," said 
 Dione. "It was a flat-bottomed sort of canoe 
 
 165
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 they call them sandolini here three planks 
 put together, pointed at both ends, and decked. 
 My father gave it to me. He did not wish me to 
 have a sail-boat. But that was what I most 
 wanted. So I thought very hard, and then I did 
 this. I had a lee-board tacked onto her all the 
 way along underneath. Then I had a huge, very 
 strong, quadrangular umbrella made. You see, 
 it wasn t really a sail ... it was only an oddly 
 shaped umbrella, which I could hold at any angle, 
 even going to windward. When a puff came too 
 strong I just let it go overboard, and then pad 
 dled up to it and picked it up." 
 
 They laughed together, as they had done at 
 their first meeting. 
 
 "The best sail for a canoe I ever heard of!" 
 said he. "You must have been an adorable 
 child." 
 
 "No ... I don t think so. I was too silent. 
 Only Cecca and my father liked me." 
 
 "Only they understood you, perhaps?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Dione. 
 
 Little by little the breeze fell, the water lay 
 dreaming. They came about and made for home, 
 running down the faint wind with spinnaker set. 
 
 "What a gorgeous morning it has been!" said 
 Kent. "We owe it all to Varoni, you know. 
 He s the best chap alive." 
 
 "Yes, he is a pleasant little man," said Dione. 
 
 " A pleasant little man! " exclaimed Kent, 
 166
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 warmly. He s much more than that, allow me 
 to tell you, Signorina. You don t know him." 
 
 "No," said Dione. "I do not know him at all. 
 But why are you so agitated ? I do not doubt 
 your affection for him?" 
 
 "Yes, but," said Kent, "when one has a 
 friend like Gigino one wants him to be appreci 
 ated." 
 
 " If I knew him better I am sure that I should 
 appreciate him. But to know just a little he is 
 not very interesting." 
 
 "He is much better than interesting. He is 
 solid gold." 
 
 "Yes, he is very solid," said Dione. 
 
 Kent flashed a quick glance at her, but she 
 was quite grave. 
 
 "What I mean," said he, after a pause, "is that 
 he is one of those men in a million, who is not 
 only the best friend in the world, but to whom a 
 woman could trust herself entirely. He is con 
 stancy itself. A woman marrying him could feel 
 safe for life." 
 
 "I do not think that to feel safe is so very 
 amusing," said Dione. 
 
 "But a woman doesn t marry to be amused. 
 She marries to ... to ..." 
 
 "To what?" said Dione. 
 
 "Well, to establish herself in life," ended Kent, 
 rather baldly. 
 
 "I suppose that is why so many marriages are 
 167
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 unhappy, and so many men take mistresses," 
 said Dione. 
 
 Kent was astounded. Not in this fashion did 
 young Italian girls usually talk. 
 
 "It seems to me that I have shocked you," 
 said his guest. "But I do not see why. You 
 know already that I think. And when one 
 thinks one cannot think of some things and not 
 of others." 
 
 "That is certainly true," admitted Kent. 
 "And I am not shocked. I was startled a little, 
 perhaps." 
 
 "If you allow me to startle you so easily you 
 will not be comfortable when we speak together, 
 and that would be a pity." 
 
 "I think I was exceedingly silly to be startled," 
 said Kent, "and I beg your pardon." 
 
 "It is nothing," said Dione.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 NOW," said Kent, a few moments later, 
 when, under his direction, she had brought 
 the Libellula about and they were heading tow 
 ard Oggebbio, "may I read you your own poem ?" 
 
 "You may read it, certainly, if you will be so 
 kind. But do not call it a poem. Poetry is too 
 great a thing to speak of so lightly. Besides, it 
 makes me uncomfortable." 
 
 "Very well; I won t say anything more," said 
 Kent, who knew that she was speaking truth 
 fully. "But just listen, and see for yourself if 
 I am not right." 
 
 His Italian was not bad, but although full of 
 foreignisms had a savor of its own. 
 
 "There," he said, when he had finished, "are 
 you not a little surprised ?" 
 
 "It is not ugly," said Dione, "but it is not 
 poetry. I suppose my Servian blood makes it 
 natural for me to put things into sorts of songs 
 or stories. . . . There is so much of that among 
 our people. They gather together in winter, over 
 the fires built in a hole in the floor mostly, and 
 sing songs and tales to musical instruments, 
 
 169
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 something like the balalaika of the Russians. 
 My father taught me some of them. He said I 
 was too small to understand them, but he wanted 
 me to know some of the folk-songs of my country. 
 Now I understand them, and I find them very 
 wild and sad." 
 
 "Could you repeat some to me?" asked Kent, 
 eagerly. "I should love to hear them." 
 
 "Surely," said Dione. "But take the tiller 
 please, for I do not know how to steer well enough 
 to do so and repeat verses at the same time." 
 
 She laid her hands one within the other, palms 
 upward, along her knee. She thought awhile; 
 then she said : 
 
 "The girls in Servia are very tall and strong 
 as I am. They are kindly, but underneath they 
 are wild and revengeful very often ... so my 
 father told me. And they carve very beautifully, 
 and paint well with simple, bright colours. In the 
 winter they paint many eggs against Eastertide. 
 I tell you this so that you may understand the 
 song I am going to repeat for you. Now I will 
 say it." 
 
 Her low, chaunting tones blew past him out 
 along the bright water: 
 
 " My eyes are the eyes of a strange woman, 
 Blue they are as the wings of a blue moth; 
 My mother came from a far country. 
 For my eyes he loved me; 
 Now have my tears washed away their colour. 
 170
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 He loves them no more. 
 
 Though I was born in the village, 
 
 In the village I am a stranger. 
 
 I will go back to the jar country of my mother. 
 
 "All the winter I staid alone painting eggs for Easter. 
 With my tears stained by my eyes 
 I made them a beautiful bhie colour; 
 With the blood that had left my heart, 
 Scarlet I made them. 
 
 With the gold of the ring never to be worn, 
 I gilded them in little patterns. 
 
 " My heart is empty as the shells I have painted 
 In the long, long winter; 
 Out of them will come no little life. 
 For me there will be no Easter 
 When I return to the far country of my mother." 
 
 Kent thought that he had never heard any 
 thing more plaintive than this simple folk-song, 
 chaunted in that low, quiet voice. 
 
 Thank you , " he said . " It has the strangest , 
 wistful charm. May I hear another?" 
 
 "I will say you a different kind of one," said 
 Dione. "This is a love-song: 
 
 "My hands arc fast in the mane of his young stallion, 
 The earth -flics backward like a spindle unwinding. 
 The wind drinks my breath, 
 But the breath of my lover is on my neck. 
 His hand is on the lock of my heart. 
 Close he holds me and safe, 
 
 As the earth flies backward like a spindle unwinding. 
 171
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Now if Death should drink my breath, like the wind, 
 Glad would I be. 
 
 For then would I never feel the hand of my lover 
 Fall from the lock of my heart. 
 
 " My hands are fast in the mane of his young stallion, 
 The earth flics backward like a spindle unwinding.". 
 
 "That is really fine," said Kent. "One feels 
 the keen thrill and smart of it. The night, the 
 galloping horse, the man and maid clutched fast 
 on its throbbing back." 
 
 He looked at the firm, strong hands upon her 
 knee, and his own simile of the Magyar came 
 back to him. He could well fancy her with those 
 hands wound fast in the mane of a young stall 
 ion, speeding away with her wild lover into the 
 night. And Gigino, balanced, moderate, con 
 ventional, was in love with this girl! Verily love 
 was the master prankster! 
 
 "There is another, different still," said Dione. 
 "It is very wild and cruel. It is called The 
 Fierce Maiden. Shall I say it to you?" 
 
 "Please," said Kent. 
 
 Chaunted Dione: 
 
 " There is that in my heart that will not let me sleep; 
 There is that beneath my heart that cries without a voice. 
 I was not alone in the summer; 
 In the winter I was all alone. 
 The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire. 
 172
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Many times he kissed me upon the eyes, 
 And many, many times upon the mouth. 
 And he said to me: Thou art mine. 
 And to him I said: /am thine. 
 The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire. 
 
 " Then when I had waited many days 
 He came to me, and all the bells were ringing. 
 He came only to say that he must go. 
 Why must thou go ? I asked that fair evil. 
 And he answered: They ivait for me at the wedding. 
 Then that beneath my heart cried without a voice, 
 And I spake to him as it bade me: 
 Go then, but not until I have given thee a last kiss. 
 And as he lay upon the wolf-skin before my fire, 
 I , with my dagger dear, 
 Made a new mouth to kiss, above his heart. 
 Red, red its lips: I kissed them many times. 
 The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire.". 
 
 "That has the master ring in it," said Kent. 
 "One feels that it is true." 
 
 "Yes, it is true. My countrywomen often kill 
 for certain wrongs." 
 
 "Why do you say my countrywomen? Do 
 you not feel yourself an Italian?" 
 
 Dione shook her head. 
 
 "I am all like my father and my father s 
 people," said she. 
 
 "Do you think that you could take your dag 
 ger dear and make an end of one who had 
 wronged you ?" 
 
 There are many persons in us that we do not
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 know until they come forth and say I am thou 
 also. . . . Ever since I was very little I have 
 been making acquaintance with new Diones. 
 How could I say? I am Servian. I am slow 
 to anger, but my anger could be very great, I 
 think. Then perhaps . . . but none knows these 
 things until they happen." 
 
 Thought Kent: 
 
 "I said that she was like a young Fate. I be 
 lieve that under certain circumstances she might 
 use a dagger without a quiver. . . . My poor 
 Gigino!" 
 
 But somehow this thought, instead of repelling 
 him, drew the girl strangely nearer. Like all 
 bright, dangerous natures, he loved bright, dan 
 gerous things. There were primeval forces throb 
 bing there so near him, under the smooth, white 
 linen of that commonplace little blouse. He felt 
 it as he had never felt it before. Somehow these 
 songs of her native land, chaunted by her to him 
 in a far country, had made her more real, more 
 imminent. 
 
 The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with 
 fire, " he said, aloud. "That is a haunting 
 line/ 
 
 "Yes. It keeps repeating itself in one s mind 
 after one has said it." 
 
 "Have you ever repeated any of these songs 
 to Gigino?" 
 
 She opened her eyes quite wide upon his for the
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 first time. They were a beautiful colour, like the 
 lake mountains just before a storm. 
 
 "To the Signer Varoni?" said she, in amaze 
 ment. But how can you ask ? Surely you must 
 know that they would shock him terribly." 
 
 "No, really. I don t think so. Gigino is not 
 as narrow-minded as all that." 
 
 "I cannot know the width of his mind, but I 
 know that those songs would shock him." 
 
 "I think you do him injustice," persisted Kent. 
 
 "I do not do him injustice. I only know very 
 well by this time what would shock him and what 
 would not." 
 
 "Well, I think you are mistaken but never 
 mind. And you really did not think I ruined 
 your lovely Diana story with my foreigner s 
 Italian?" 
 
 "No," said Dione. "You must truly be a 
 great poet in your own language, for even in 
 Italian, which you cannot know as you do that, 
 you say things in a different way from others. 
 You take a familiar word and put it in a new 
 place. It is like seeing a little child that one 
 has seen every day, put in a holy procession. It 
 becomes different and takes a new grace." 
 
 "Thank you," said Kent. "You pay me a 
 great compliment." 
 
 "It is not a compliment," returned Dione. 
 "It is just the truth." 
 
 Kent gazed at her consideringly as she looked
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 past him up at the full sail, for she was steering 
 again now. Truly there was a mine of pure 
 jewels in this nature. Could Gigino polish and 
 set them fitly ? 
 
 He might as well set the Iron Crown of Lom- 
 bardy on his brow!" thought Kent, with a sudden 
 spurt of spontaneity. 
 
 The tramontana was now breathing itself gen 
 tly to sleep. It was near lunch-time, but the 
 mooring was in sight. 
 
 "If you will allow me," said Kent, taking out 
 his note-book and the nibbled silver pencil, "I 
 will write down those songs. The wind is so 
 light now that I can steer very well with the 
 tiller between my knees like this and write at 
 the same time." 
 
 He sat on deck just abaft the cockpit and 
 scribbled industriously while Dione chaunted a 
 second time the folk-songs of her far country.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 KENT S work did not go so well for the next 
 week or two. He had got, as it were, "out 
 of touch" with his characters. Instead of that 
 glad and mystic oneness with them, as of a 
 mother with the child she carries beneath her 
 heart, there came the sense of apartness, of a 
 thing being made instead of a thing growing. 
 The Lady Lisa evaded him, grew as diaphanous 
 as the cloud image of the real Helen. 
 
 "The matter is," thought he, discontentedly, 
 "that I ve let myself get interested in outside 
 matters. I ought to go into retreat with the 
 Trappist monks when I begin a thing like this. 
 I ought to hear no real voices and see only a 
 strip of sky through a tilted shutter. How is 
 one to keep a vampirish lady, older than the 
 rocks among which she sits, clear in one s mind 
 when one is incessantly wondering about the 
 destiny of another creature who is as young as 
 Eve, still warm with Adam s side, and less like a 
 vampire than a white haw r k is ? I m sort of sub 
 consciously bothering over that young woman 
 nearly all the time. If she would only take or 
 12 177
 
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 leave Gigino, I think I could settle down. I 
 wonder what move he s made lately? . . . I ll 
 just knock off work, and look him up this after 
 noon and find out. . . . Eh! but if a man s 
 diurnal shaving makes up for the pangs of child 
 birth, as Byron said, what of the parturition of a 
 five -act drama with the Monna Lisa for lead 
 ing lady? . . . Yes, I ll have a talk with Gi 
 gino. ..." 
 
 Varoni was only too glad to talk with his 
 friend. He had kept away from him because 
 of his work, and assented gladly when Kent 
 proposed that they should have a tramp to 
 gether. 
 
 "And how," said Kent, almost as soon as they 
 had started, "how goes the venture upon the 
 dragon marriage ?" 
 
 "I have asked the permission of the Signora 
 Rupin to pay my addresses to her daughter," 
 answered Varoni, "and she has consented." 
 
 " Consented! ... I should rather fancy she 
 had. . . . She had consented long before you 
 asked her, my dear. ... It isn t she who has to 
 be reckoned with, but the young lady herself." 
 
 "That I know as well as you, Alareec, but you 
 yourself advised me festina lente. . . . That is 
 what I am forcing myself to do. It is hard, but 
 I have come to agree with you that it is better. 
 In two days I shall have to go to England again. 
 When I return . . . yes, then I shall ask her." 
 
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 "How long do you expect to be gone?" said 
 Kent. 
 
 "About ten days or a fortnight. All will be 
 very easily arranged if she consents. . . . Her 
 mother and I talked very frankly. I have asked 
 especially that she should say nothing to her 
 daughter until I speak myself. The Signorina 
 has also a small dot, which is very well." 
 
 Kent stopped and looked at him. 
 
 "You Latins are the oddest mixture," said he, 
 finally. "Fancy asking about the dot of Ata- 
 lanta. Besides, as beastly rich as you are, Gi- 
 gino, what earthly difference can it make to you 
 whether she comes to you in cloth of gold or in 
 one shift, like Cophetua s beggar-maid? It is 
 really the rummies t thing!" 
 
 "You do not understand," said Varoni, pa 
 tiently. "It is an excellent thing for a young 
 girl to bring with her even a small sum of money 
 when she marries. It gives her a certain inde 
 pendence a certain feeling of dignity. I won 
 der that you should not see that." 
 
 "Yes . . . but . . ." said Kent, "when one is 
 such a geyser of love as you are, to think about 
 such a thing at all seems odd." 
 
 "We Italians are practical as well as passion 
 ate," said Varoni. " It is a good mixture, I think." 
 
 "Admirable," assented Kent, gravely. 
 
 They walked on for a little while in silence; 
 then Kent said: 
 
 179
 
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 So you will make the great venture in about 
 ten days, then ? . . . What do you think, Gigino 
 mio, that she will say to you?" 
 
 Varoni shook his head. 
 
 "I know no more than you," said he. "She 
 is quite simple and open, and yet it is not an easy 
 nature to read." 
 
 "No," said Kent, "it certainly is not. ... I 
 doubt if she finds herself easy reading," he added, 
 after a moment s thought. 
 
 " Chi lo sa?" said Varoni. 
 
 He left for England the following Wednesday, 
 and the day after, the play progressing no better 
 and the tramontana being perfect, Kent decided 
 to ask Dione to sail with him again. 
 
 Cruising one day as the wind carried him, he 
 had sailed past Santa Catterina and come upon 
 the most lovely, wistful spot on the eastern shore 
 of the lake. It was a rocky point that stood out 
 in the fair waters, the little medieval village of 
 Arolo or "Roeu," as it is called in the dialect 
 to its left; a shallow, reedy bay fringed with 
 Lombard poplars, curving far into the melting 
 distance, on its right. An osteria stood on the 
 point, which was called Rocca Moro, and en 
 folding it were natural lawns and forests in which 
 Melisande might have walked day-dreaming. 
 
 "Yes," thought Kent, "I will ask her to come 
 to Rocca Moro and lunch there with me. It will 
 be an all-day affair, so I shall propose taking 
 
 1 80
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 the beautiful old Cecca along to play pro 
 priety." 
 
 Dione was as frankly glad to go with him as 
 usual, her Signora Mamma quite as glad to have 
 her go, and Cecca, after the first appalled recoil 
 of an old Italian peasant woman asked to go for 
 pleasure on a sail-boat, crossed herself elaborate 
 ly and consented. 
 
 The morning was one of those that come to the 
 lake in early August, dancing like Cinderella on 
 shoes of glass. All was of glass a thin, Vene 
 tian glass of azure-gray shot with silver the sky, 
 the mountains, the water. On every side the 
 landscape dreamed, a world of transparent love 
 liness, blown lightly into space by some master 
 workman, film on delicate film of a stuff lighter 
 than gossamer. 
 
 "Eh, Cecca mia" said Dione to her old nurse, 
 "are you not glad that you came ? Is it not like 
 sailing upon the sea of glass in the Scripture? 
 Do we not go smoothly?" 
 
 "Ay, well enough at present," admitted Cecca, 
 cautiously. But there are many winds in the 
 sack of the sky. This is not the only one. And 
 many of them are rough-and-tumble fellows, not 
 a gentle little Sciora of a breeze like this." 
 
 "But the sky, Cecca, look at the sky! . . . 
 There are no clouds there at all. Only a sort of 
 silver dust, as though the stars had been ground 
 into powder to make the daylight." 
 
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 "Eh, Gioia," said Cecca, "clouds are like a 
 woman s humours. One never knows when or 
 whence they come, or why, per Dio!" 
 
 Kent laughed. 
 
 "Cecca is right," said he, "especially upon 
 this lake of hers which she knows well, it seems ; 
 but for to-day I can promise her fair weather." 
 
 Cecca made the sign against evil. 
 
 "At any rate," said she "I have that here in 
 the bosom of my dress will protect us all." 
 
 And she looked knowingly at Dione. Dione, in 
 her turn, cast an apprehensive glance at Kent. 
 She was dreadfully afraid for a second that Cecca 
 was about to mention the fact of having that 
 treasured caul in her bosom. But Cecca nodded 
 reassuringly. "Have no fear, Gioia," said she. 
 "I know better than most when to speak and 
 when to be silent." 
 
 Kent, busied in trimming the sails so as to pass 
 as close to Santa Catterina as possible, missed 
 this little side scene, and Dione drew a long 
 breath of relief. 
 
 She had put a knot of orange ribbon under her 
 white collar to celebrate the occasion of an all-day 
 gita in the Libellula, and Kent noticed suddenly 
 the reflected glow that it sent up under her 
 smooth chin. 
 
 "She is quite beautiful to-day," thought he. 
 "Sometimes she is almost plain. She changes 
 like the lake." 
 
 182
 
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 "Will you steer now?" he asked, and Cecca s 
 two hands went up in protest. 
 
 "Signor!" cried she, "do not do such a thing 
 as that, and me in this mad little vessel. At 
 least let me feel that a man is guiding it." 
 
 "There is no danger," said Dione. "See . . . 
 you could do it yourself. ..." 
 
 "The Madonna forsake me," said Cecca ear 
 nestly, "if I lay so much as the tip of a finger-nail 
 on that piece of copper. . . . And do you sit 
 farther away, Gioia mia. The first thing you 
 know we shall all be drinking each other s healths 
 in water if you meddle with it. And that, you 
 know, is not good luck," she wound up with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Very well. I will steer all the way myself," 
 said Kent, "but on one condition . . . that you 
 tell us some ghost or witch stories." 
 
 "May all the saints protect us!" cried Cecca, 
 "making horns" with both hands. "Do not 
 even mention such things at a time like this. . . . 
 I entreat you seriously. Besides, I do not like 
 to talk that others may laugh at me." 
 
 "You are mistaken truly if you think that I 
 would laugh at you," said Kent. "My dear old 
 nurse she is dead now, the Virgin be good to 
 her was from an island called Ireland, where 
 folk know much about such things. And she 
 was also what is called a blood-healer. Do you 
 know what that is? ... Very well, I will tell 
 
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 you. It is a person who can lay her fingers to 
 the lips of the most severe wound and cause the 
 blood to cease flowing by repeating some magic 
 words. And this is a true thing, for this old 
 nurse Moira she was called saved my life when 
 I was a little lad by stopping the blood from a 
 scythe - cut in my foot. There is the scar 
 now . . ." 
 
 And he turned sidewise his bare foot in its 
 cord-sandal, that she might see the scar on his 
 ankle. 
 
 "Santa Maria!" breathed Cecca. She looked 
 at Kent with a new interest, and said within 
 herself, "May the Virgin prosper him," more 
 heartily than ever. 
 
 Dione also gave him a new look. This was 
 something that she had long wanted to know. 
 He believed, then, in the incredible and unseen, 
 even as she did. She was glad. 
 
 "Eh, la Peppa!" said Cecca, as she lifted her 
 self from an earnest scrutiny of the ugly white 
 cicatrix. "Then I will tell you something, since 
 you do not scoff ... I kept the Signore waiting 
 a bit for me this morning, eh, Signore? . . . 
 Very well. ... It was because I had so sharp a 
 pain in my thigh that unless I had cured it I 
 could not have come along to-day. And how 
 did you cure it, Cecca? say you. . . . Very well. 
 . . . Listen. . . . Last Sunday I went to church 
 in a new gown and the headkerchief my young 
 
 184
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Sciora here gave me lately . . . and there was 
 a certain person there ..." (she "made horns") 
 "... who, as I passed her, just touched me 
 here . . . with the tip of her finger. Very well. 
 I know what that means. . . . And, sure enough, 
 no sooner am I at home again than a bolic pain 
 seizes me so that I can scarcely walk. ... I 
 know that physic is no use ... so I read and 
 read in my books of good magic. . . . Not till 
 this morning did I come upon the right thing. 
 . . . Very well. . . . When I kept the Signore 
 waiting this is what I was about. I get me three 
 pinches of salt, and I say over them certain 
 words, . . . and then I touch that finger - mark 
 with the three pinches of salt, one after the 
 other, and then, quick! into the fire with em, 
 saying, Va all Inferno! Zzt! Paf! Crrkl . . . 
 The Signore should have heard them popping 
 . . . like devilkins diving back into hell . . . but 
 the pain went with them, eh, per Dio! There 
 . . . that is a true tale for a true tale, so none is 
 the loser. ..." 
 
 They were now coming alongside of Rocca 
 Moro, and Kent went forward to lower the jib.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "N TOW," said Kent, as they mounted the old 
 
 1 N stone steps to the osteria, with Cecca fol 
 lowing at a respectful distance, "let us order 
 Cecca a gorgeous repast of all that she loves 
 best, and then go and picnic on one of those 
 lovely wild lawns that I am dying to show you 
 . . . see . . . that shady slant of turf and wild 
 flowers there, just beyond the hedge. From this 
 terrace Cecca can keep an eye on us, and gossip 
 also with the padrona to her heart s content." 
 
 "Yes . . . that is just what I should like," 
 said Dione. 
 
 He rushed about like a boy, tipping right and 
 left with his usual English improvidence, and 
 soon they were seated among the fragrant grass 
 es, a coarse, clean cloth between them, and upon 
 it a bottle of white wine, a fragrant risotto with 
 saffron, and a bowl of salad. Kent had brought 
 some apples from Ceredo. 
 
 He watched her, smiling, for a moment, as she 
 ate seriously, taking, now and then, little swal 
 lows of wine that ran with a ripple down her 
 white throat. 
 
 186
 
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 With permission," said he, "I do love to see 
 you eat." 
 
 "To see me eat?" said Dione, and paused with 
 a leaf of lettuce just touching her bright lips. 
 
 "Yes, Signorina, to see you eat. . . . There 
 are not many people in this monotonous world 
 who eat with such earnestness and yet with such 
 charm as you do." 
 
 "I did not think that any one could eat with 
 charm," said Dione. "But I do like very much 
 to eat . . . when I am hungry." 
 
 Kent thought of the Lady Lisa, and smiled 
 again. Yes, it was just Dione and her vibrant 
 personality that had shaken the clear vision of 
 that other in his mind s mirror. . . . The Lady 
 Lisa might have eaten rice with a bodkin like 
 Amina, but she would never have put whole 
 spoonfuls of it with such frank zest between her 
 subtle lips. . . . 
 
 "And now that this excellent risotto has nearly 
 gone," pursued he, "and you feel somewhat re 
 freshed, I will ask you to turn your head a little 
 and look at that lovely bay and the long line of 
 poplars. ... Is it not one of the most beautiful 
 things that you ever saw?" 
 
 Dione looked at it quietly for some moments. 
 Then she said: 
 
 "It is truly very beautiful, but very sad also. 
 It is like a woman who has wept herself to 
 sleep." 
 
 187
 
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 "You are a poet," said Kent, gleefully. 
 "You re always betraying yourself." 
 
 Dione looked at him, then at the curve of bay 
 again, but she said nothing. She was thinking 
 that what she felt must be happiness, and that 
 she had never been happy in all her life before. 
 
 "A penny," said Kent. 
 
 "A penny?" 
 
 "Yes . . . we say in England a penny for 
 your thoughts." 
 
 "My thoughts are not for sale yet, . . . though 
 you do call me a poet," said she, with her rare, 
 transforming smile. "Some day . . . when I 
 have made a little book of them, perhaps . . . 
 yes . . . perhaps then, I shall sell you the little 
 book for ... it will be a great price that I shall 
 ask for my little book." 
 
 "I would give any price," said Kent. 
 
 "You do not know what I might ask." 
 
 "I will pay without knowing." 
 
 "For one little book?" 
 
 "For the book of your thoughts," said Kent. 
 
 "That would be just myself." 
 
 "Well, you know the price of a virtuous 
 woman," said he, lightly; "it is above rubies." 
 
 "I think, after all, that I would not sell that 
 book at any price," said Dione, gravely. 
 
 "But you would let me read a little in it, here 
 and there, wouldn t you?" 
 
 "It seems to me that I have done that already." 
 1 88
 
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 "Oh, but not half enough," said Kent. 
 
 "Listen," said Dione. "I have something 
 serious to say. I want very much that you 
 should read me something in one of your real 
 books." 
 
 "But they are not translated into Italian, my 
 dear Signorina. I haven t yet reached that 
 point of greatness." 
 
 "You could translate for me." 
 
 "No .... hardly. I do not think that even 
 my great works would bear that test. I will tell 
 you what the last one the one that I am writing 
 now- is about, though, if you would like to hear." 
 
 And, lying at full length in the grass beside her, 
 he told her his play of Leonardo and the Lady 
 Lisa. 
 
 "It is very original," said Dione, when he had 
 finished. "I do not think that any one else ever 
 thought of such a thing. But tell me" she 
 looked at her own long, tapering hand and the 
 grass shadows that laced it "tell me truly, . . . 
 is that the kind of woman that you most admire ?" 
 
 "One admires so many women in so many dif 
 ferent ways," said Kent, amused. "Now, you, 
 for instance . . . with permission I should like 
 to write a poem about you and call it Eve 
 Unrepentant." 
 
 Dione considered this. 
 
 If you please, will you tell me why you wish 
 it?" she asked at last. 
 
 189
 
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 "It is because if you had been in Eve s place 
 I am quite sure that you would not have waited 
 in that commonplace way for the serpent to 
 tempt you. You see, Eve had no imagination 
 whatever. It never occurred to her, until sug 
 gested by another, that it would be an interesting 
 and vital experience to eat of the fruit of the 
 knowledge of good and evil. And when she did 
 finally do so, it was in the very dull manner re 
 lated in the story. Now you" he lifted him 
 self on his elbow, and looked up at her gravely 
 "yes, you, I am quite sure, would have been re 
 flecting upon the forbidden tree from the moment 
 that it was forbidden. And very soon you would 
 have said to yourself, It is true that I do not 
 know what is the meaning of this death of which 
 the Lord spoke, but it seems to me that it would 
 be better to have knowledge even of good and 
 evil, whatever they may be, than to remain ig- 
 norantly thus, admiring each other and playing 
 with the beasts, without knowing why, or, in 
 deed, without knowing anything at all. In a 
 word," continued Kent, tickled with his own 
 fancy, and spinning it out as he saw that she was 
 interested, "in a word, you would have been very 
 much bored in Eden, and you would have 
 thought I prefer to accept the anger of the 
 Lord together with the knowledge of good and 
 evil rather than to remain in total ignorance 
 and ennui. Besides, you would have reflected, 
 
 190
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 I am quite sure that there must be a Lord above 
 this Lord who would not grudge me anything 
 that He has made. 
 
 "And so one day you would have walked 
 quietly to the Tree of Knowledge, before the ser 
 pent had entered Eden, and you would have 
 eaten of its fruit with that frank gusto which I 
 have already told you that I find charming. 
 You would not have offered Adam any, I think. 
 You would merely have told him your own 
 opinion, and left it to him to decide for himself. 
 Then you would never have thought for an in 
 stant of hiding or of making yourself a silly frock 
 of leaves. You would have just listened with 
 grave respect to the words of the Lord when He 
 came in the cool of the evening. Then when He 
 had finished you would have said, It is per 
 fectly just, and before the angel could have 
 lifted his naming sword you would have walked 
 quietly out of Eden of your own accord. 
 
 "Now I have told you exactly why I should 
 like to write a poem about you and call it Eve 
 Unrepentant. 
 
 Dione was smiling. Her thick lashes were 
 lowered, and she played with a blade of grass, 
 looping it in and out between her fingers. 
 
 "There is something in what you say," she 
 observed, still smiling. "I used to wonder long 
 ago, why, when Eve had been created so very 
 silly, the Lord objected so much to her having a 
 
 191
 
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 little knowledge of good and evil. It would be 
 impossible, it seems to me, that even God could 
 be much interested in a being who had no knowl 
 edge of good and evil. I should think that He 
 would want his creatures to choose to serve Him, 
 not just to be good as a fish is a fish or an egg an 
 
 egg-" 
 
 "Shall I write the poem?" asked Kent, with 
 his eyes still on her. 
 
 "It would make a very amusing poem," said 
 Dione. 
 
 "Then I will write it. May I dedicate it To 
 Dione ?" 
 
 "Surely . . . it will be a great honour." 
 
 Then she smiled again. 
 
 "What you have been saying reminds me of a 
 strange old song of my country . . . very, very 
 old it is, my father told me. It is a song that 
 was sung to the newly married. I always thought 
 it very strange and true, though most people, I 
 suppose, would consider it blasphemous. Would 
 you like to hear it ?" 
 
 "Of all things," said Kent. 
 
 "Very well," said Dione, and she began in that 
 low, measured chaunting: 
 
 "The Lady Eve was singing to her first-born; 
 Adam, her lord, worked in the ripe maize-field. 
 Happy was she ; her song came forth with smiling : 
 Sleep little Cain, a secret I will tell thee: 
 God came in likeness of a snake to Eden Garden. 
 192
 
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 "Awake, O loving bride! Come forth glad bride 
 groom! 
 
 Thy spade leans idle and the maize is ready. 
 Thy pitcher, girl, stands empty at the fountain. 
 Work after love, and loving after working. 
 God came in likeness of a snake to Eden Garden." 
 
 Kent looked at her for a time in silence when 
 she had finished, then he said: 
 
 "Yes . . . you are certainly of the race that 
 produced that poem." 
 
 "I should certainly prefer love and work out 
 of Eden to love and idleness in it," answered 
 Dione. "I could not have gone about hand in 
 hand with Adam forever, doing nothing but just 
 love him. I should have grown to hate him." 
 
 "Yet it would have been pleasant to return 
 there sometimes . . . in the cool of the day," : 
 said Kent, smiling. 
 
 "I think each man and woman must make a 
 little Eden for themselves," said Dione, answer 
 ing his smile. "I think that would be much 
 more amusing." 
 
 "They do, ... but they always get driven 
 out. And they cannot return, either. It is the 
 old story repeating itself." 
 
 "The sword of flame could not keep me from 
 returning," said Dione. 
 
 "Ah, but it isn t only the sword of flame. The 
 Edens that men and women make, vanish utterly 
 . . . are swallowed up as by a sort of heaven- 
 X 3 193
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 quake. . . . There would be no garden for you 
 to return to." 
 
 "That is very sad if it is true," said Dione. 
 "But I cannot think that it is always true." 
 
 "Always . . . always," said Kent, with the 
 first bitterness that she had ever heard in his 
 voice. "Always," he repeated a third time. 
 
 Neither said anything more for some moments ; 
 then Dione ventured on one of her amazing 
 franknesses. "It seems such a pity that people 
 have to marry," said she. "It is that, I think, 
 that swallows up the Edens." 
 
 "You do not believe in marriage?" Kent 
 asked, curiously. 
 
 "Si, I believe in it for the children. Only 
 for the children. As the world is now, the 
 children must bear names, and it is necessary 
 that they have a right to them. Otherwise it 
 seems to me that every woman should only want 
 a man to remain with her as long as he loved her. 
 When that ceased then the marriage would be 
 unmade. At least, that is the way that I feel 
 about it." 
 
 And you would let a man go you would set 
 him free just because he loved you no longer?" 
 
 "But ... as the air!" said Dione, and she 
 made an outward gesture with both palms up 
 turned. 
 
 "Ah," said Kent, "you think so. You could 
 not know until you had been tested." 
 
 194
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I believe that I know exactly," said Dione. 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 "Well," said Kent, after a while, "with per 
 mission, you are certainly a very remarkable 
 young girl to have been born on the shores of 
 Lago Maggiore and never to have travelled from 
 them." 
 
 "I know what you mean," she returned, 
 gravely; "but it is what moves in our minds, 
 not the moving about of our bodies, I think, 
 that makes us remarkable or not remarkable. 
 I have travelled many leagues in my mind." 
 
 "I wonder," said Kent, thinking aloud what 
 he had so often thought to himself "I wonder 
 what your destiny will be?" 
 
 "I wonder very much myself often," said 
 Dione. 
 
 "Should I be impertinent if I asked whether 
 you have ever thought yourself in love with 
 any one?" 
 
 "No," said Dione, frankly. "No, you are not 
 impertinent and, no, I have never been in love 
 with any one." 
 
 Kent glanced at her, then gave himself a men 
 tal shake. "You should get Cecca to tell your 
 fortune," he said, lightly. "I am sure that it 
 would be quite unique." 
 
 Dione shook her head. 
 
 "Cecca has told my fortune very often," said 
 she. "The cards are always most stupid, A 
 
 195
 
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 fair man, a dark man, jealousy, a quarrel, a rich 
 marriage, many children, all boys She 
 broke off, and her lips tilted in laughter. "That 
 is the only part that is not stupid all those 
 little boys," she said, gayly. "If I ever have 
 children I wish them all to be sons." 
 
 Kent thought of Lady Macbeth, and the con 
 trast made him laugh also. He was growing ac 
 customed to Dione s unparalleled candour. 
 
 "But has Cecca only told your fortune with 
 the cards ?" he then asked. Has she never told 
 it by the lines on your hand?" 
 
 "No . . . never," said Dione, looking curiously 
 at her smooth, carmine-flushed palm. "I do not 
 think that she knows how. That must be very 
 amusing." 
 
 "I used to know a good bit about it," said 
 Kent. "I think that I remember enough to tell 
 your fortune. Shall I try?" 
 
 "Please," said Dione, much interested. 
 
 "Then give me your hand. . . . No, your 
 right one first." 
 
 He held out his own hand, and after the merest 
 breath of hesitation the girl laid hers in it. But 
 no sooner did the warm, flexile palm touch his 
 than there went a shock through all Kent s veins 
 that singing thrill of the sharp blood that is like 
 the swarming of sparks in a sudden draught. 
 His heart caught on a beat. He stayed for a 
 moment gazing down at the firm young hand 
 
 196
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 that rested upon his without seeing it. Then 
 suddenly his eyes cleared, and it seemed to him 
 that a little tremour ran through it too, so slight 
 that it was not more than the quiver of heat 
 above a summer field. 
 
 Had she also felt it that mysterious pang that 
 for the instant fuses two life-currents into one? 
 And why? . . . And how? . . . Never had she 
 appealed to him from the side of sex. Never had 
 she aroused in him other than a keen sense of in 
 terest and curiosity. The Ape and the Peacock 
 had never so much as stirred in their sleep at 
 the thought of her. . . . Yes, once, perhaps, but 
 even then it was from no such emotion as this 
 . . . but from the merest flash of that primitive 
 sense of rivalry which lies latent in all males, and 
 is apt to move uneasily in the presence of a too- 
 confident lover. 
 
 He commanded his voice with an effort, and 
 managed to string together some of the common 
 places of palmistry. Then he quickly released 
 her hand. 
 
 "Thank you," said Dione, "I think that it 
 must be time to return now." 
 
 She spoke also in a low voice, and busied her 
 self in gathering together her gloves and little 
 blue cotton sunshade. 
 
 They went back to the osteria without looking 
 at each other and without saying anything more.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 KENT tried in vain that night to wrench his 
 thoughts away from Dione. The new as 
 pect in which he had seen her made him feel 
 much as Orlando would have felt if, when think 
 ing upon Rosalind in her page s dress, as a pleas 
 ant boy, he had come suddenly face to face with 
 her in all the allurement of woman s fragrant at 
 tire. 
 
 His fancy played him tricks, would not be 
 commanded. He ordered it sternly to weave him 
 the pattern of the next act of his "Leonardo," 
 and it leaped spirtishly to and fro, waving wisps 
 and shreds of Dione s personality and appear 
 ance before his mental vision. Now it was the 
 strange, gold-scarlet of her lip trembling sudden 
 ly like a petal under the bee. Now the black 
 flamelets of her hair as they kept touching 
 lightly her cheek and throat during the morn 
 ing s sail. . . . Now he heard her full, young 
 voice saying "No ... I have never been in 
 love. ..." Then, rich with soft laughter, "I 
 wish all my children to be sons. ..." He 
 thought of her freedom, her frankness, her clear 
 
 198
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 daring as of the young Eve, whom he himself 
 had pictured, and who partook of the fruit of 
 the knowledge of good and evil untempted of 
 the serpent, and led only by her own will. . . . 
 Angrily he coerced his mind : lighted a candle, 
 set himself to read something bearing upon his 
 drama. That prankish fancy of his wove wild 
 arabesques between him and the sober pages 
 a tipsy elf working in her absence at a witch s 
 loom, with all the feverish colours of just awak 
 ening desire. 
 
 Kent extinguished his candle again, and went 
 out upon the balcony. The sky was freckled 
 as with fire by the swarming stars, the lake in 
 a deep sleep. Against the dark bulk of the 
 Sasso di Ferro, Dione s face leaped suddenly 
 toward his, clear and pale and distinct as in a 
 flash of lightning. He saw again the tremour of 
 the red lip, as of a petal under the bee, and the 
 quivering of the fine nostrils. 
 
 "O cursed blood of man, always urging him 
 back from the bright places," groaned he in his 
 heart. "It is a flood that pours over a gulf 
 down, down- 
 He stared up at the flashing sky that had sent 
 him such sovereign messages of power and joy 
 only a short time since. His creative mood was 
 no longer upon him like a king s mantle, but 
 hung heavily a thing all tatters. 
 
 Then he thought suddenly of Varoni, and 
 199
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 went hot from head to foot with an honest 
 shame. 
 
 "Yes," he said, setting his jaw, "I will not 
 see the girl any more until Gigino comes back." 
 
 But he slept ill that night, and the next day 
 the play went no better. 
 
 This state of mind lasted for three days. On 
 the third night, about twelve o clock, unable to 
 endure longer the straitness of his bed and 
 room, he sprang up, flung on his clothes, and 
 went out of the house, far afield. 
 
 The night was low and gray the scirocco 
 blowing. He seemed to be walking through the 
 fragrant steam from a vast cauldron in which a 
 love -potion was brewing. All the night was 
 laden with heavy scent of sunburnt peaches, 
 of white jasmine, of roses overripe, of the 
 swooning breath of gardenias. The subtly 
 mingled perfumes played over his stretched 
 senses like fingers over a harp shrilling out wild 
 chords, sounding a single note now and then 
 with a pang as of physical pain, now merely 
 thrumming softly, now striking with the open 
 palm. He smarted with the fierce sense of 
 helplessness, lowered his head, walked faster. 
 Almost he ran, plunging into the dense night at 
 random, scaling walls, trampling through young 
 maize going on and on and on, in the urgency 
 of out-tiring those rebellious senses. 
 
 And then suddenly, barely halting in time, 
 
 20Q
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 he almost struck against some one else in the 
 uneasy gloom. The next moment he felt, rather 
 than saw, that it was Dione. She caught her 
 breath, and he heard her. 
 
 "You!" they both said together. 
 
 They stood quite still for a space, gazing tow 
 ard each other through the shadow s. At last 
 Kent said : 
 
 "At least you have Masciett with you?" 
 
 And Dione answered: 
 
 "Yes, he is somewhere near." 
 
 Then again they stood silent. 
 
 "Signorina," said Kent at last, "you must let 
 me take you back to your home. This is a dan 
 gerous madness to go about on these moun 
 tains alone at midnight." 
 
 "No," said Dione, "it is not in the least dan 
 gerous. Nothing has ever happened here. I 
 could not sleep, and the garden seemed too small 
 
 to walk in. That is all." 
 
 " But your mother may chance to call you . . . 
 
 or your nurse . . . and find you gone. And 
 then they will be terribly alarmed." 
 
 "No," said Dione again, "Cecca sleeps too 
 soundly, and my mother never calls me in the 
 
 night." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Kent, slowly, "I must 
 take you back, and at once . . . 
 
 "Very well ... I will go with you," said 
 Dione. 
 
 201
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 They turned, but the way was not clear before 
 them. 
 
 "Do you know a direct way back?" asked 
 Kent, after some moments. 
 
 "No," she answered. "I just walked on and 
 on . . ." 
 
 "Have you any idea where we are?" 
 
 "I think that is Arlino . . . there, where you 
 see that little glow. I think they are having a 
 festa to-night. ... If we come down by Arlino 
 we shall be on the right way . . . but it is very 
 steep." 
 
 "I can help you if it gets too rough," said 
 Kent, after another pause. "Let us go straight 
 across this field. ... It seems to me that there 
 is a rather high wall there. But I can help 
 you over it quite easily. . . . Ah, here is Mas- 
 ciett!" 
 
 They went on in silence until they reached the 
 wall. It was built of stones, and, as he had said, 
 rather high. He swung himself on top. 
 
 "Now," he said, bending down to her, "set 
 your foot securely on one of those jutting stones 
 and give me both hands." 
 
 In another moment she was beside him. 
 
 "Wait," he then said, peering down. "There 
 seems to be a ditch here . . . don t jump ... I 
 will get down first and then lift you down." 
 
 Dione did just as he bade her, but, in descend 
 ing, her skirt caught on a stone. For an instant 
 
 202
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 she was on his breast. He steadied her lightly, 
 and again they went on in silence. 
 
 They were next halted by a thick wood. 
 
 "I know this wood," said Dione, as he hesi 
 tated; "there is a rough road through it that 
 leads round above Arlino. We must walk along 
 it until we come to that road." 
 
 "Yes, that will be the best way," said Kent. 
 
 Dione went slowly, peering among the thick 
 stems of the trees. At last she said: 
 
 "This is it ... I have found it," and they 
 turned into the dense and rustling darkness. 
 
 "I wonder," said Dione, after a few moments, 
 "if Pan is abroad to-night?" 
 
 Why ? Do you feel frightened ?" 
 
 "No," said Dione, "I feel happy." 
 
 Kent was silent. 
 
 "It always makes me happy to be abroad in 
 the night," she added, when some moments had 
 passed. "But I fear that you are really dis 
 pleased with me, Signore ?" 
 
 I have no right to be displeased . . . but I am 
 anxious for you. This was a mad thing to do." 
 
 "I love doing the things that others call mad," 
 said she. 
 
 Kent was silent again. 
 
 Presently the girl said: 
 
 "It usually makes me angry for others to pre 
 sume to be angry with me; but somehow I am 
 not angry with you I am only sorry." 
 
 203
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "For God s sake!" said Kent, under his breath. 
 
 "If you please . . . what did you say ?" asked 
 Dione. 
 
 "I said that it is very good of you to be ... 
 to feel . . . not to be angry with me." 
 
 "No, it is not good of me. It comes natu 
 rally. Stop! . . . I walked against a tree then. 
 . . . Here is another. . . . Can you see? . . . 
 Are there trees in your way ? . . . I fear that we 
 are lost ..." 
 
 "You are crazy!" exclaimed Kent, roughly. 
 "It s impossible ..." 
 
 He struck a match, and the near leaves 
 sprang out in a delicate lacework against the 
 night. 
 
 "Thank God!" he said at last, and guided her 
 toward a stony path that went curling down to 
 Arlino. 
 
 Suddenly Dione gave a little cry. 
 
 "Well?" said Kent, almost impatiently. 
 
 "I have run a thorn or a splinter of stone into 
 my foot," said she. "One of my zoccoli turned, 
 and my foot went down upon the ground." 
 
 "Very well," he answered, "if you will sit 
 down there beside the path I will light another 
 match and see what has happened." 
 
 He struck a match, and this time it was a 
 throng of young birch stems that leaped like 
 white dryads out of the darkness. 
 
 Dione slipped her bare foot from the wooden 
 204
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 patten, and Kent bent over it with the match. 
 Then he handed her his match-case. 
 
 "It is only a thorn," said he; "if you will 
 light me, I will take it out for you in a moment." 
 
 He lifted the shining foot upon his hand, and 
 his blood shook at the contact. The thorn had 
 a rough head, and was easily drawn out. 
 
 "Now bind your handkerchief around it," said 
 Kent. "You will know better how tight to make 
 it than I could." 
 
 Dione obeyed him, and when they had gone on 
 a little way, she said : 
 
 "You are indeed very angry with me ... I 
 could see it in your face by the light of the 
 matches." 
 
 Kent set his teeth. 
 
 "You are quite mistaken," he said, formally. 
 It would be an impertinence for me to be angry 
 with you. As I said before, I am only deeply 
 anxious for you. Suppose, for instance, that 
 some one whom you know were to meet you near 
 Arlino?" 
 
 "I should not care," said the girl, proudly. 
 "I am ashamed of nothing that I do." 
 
 Kent groaned in spirit. He had the feeling of 
 being in a genuine nightmare, which only dif 
 fered from other nightmares in its intensity and 
 reality. He thought that little Arlino must be 
 trotting down the mountain-side before them, so 
 interminable seemed the way to it. 
 
 205
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE stony footpath which they were follow 
 ing looped suddenly upon itself, and took 
 so sharp a fall that he was obliged to assist Dione 
 in descending it. She gave him her hand frankly, 
 and, balancing each other, they went cautiously 
 down toward the festive glow above Arlino. 
 
 It was very dark in these woods, though the 
 clouds had thinned somewhat, letting through 
 the light of a sick moon. 
 
 They came out upon a little slope of newly 
 mown grass directly overhanging the village. 
 It was as if they stood on some high place in an 
 open - air theatre and looked down upon a play. 
 Laughter and gay shoutings and the nervous 
 shiver of several mandolins floated up to them. 
 
 "If one of my zoccoli came off it would fall 
 right among the dancers," said Dione, leaning 
 over, with her arm about a tree. "How like 
 impassioned mosquitoes those mandolins sound, 
 do they not? Those must be strolling players. 
 Our peasants do not use mandolins." 
 
 "I never heard of an impassioned mosquito," 
 replied Kent, laughing in spite of himself. 
 
 206
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "But if they should be impassioned, that is 
 the way that they would sound," persisted 
 she. 
 
 "Very likely," said Kent; "but we had better 
 be getting on. Shall we have to pass through 
 the village, or is there a way round?" 
 
 "There is a way round. Let us look just a 
 few moments longer. How gay they are ! What 
 a little makes them happy! Ah, I should like to 
 dance. . . . Now . . . out here ... in the night 
 ... on this grass . . ." 
 
 "To the music of impassioned mosquitoes 
 and in zoccoli, and after having a thorn in your 
 foot?" asked Kent, allowing himself to be 
 amused, in the relief of having reached the right 
 road, and deciding to leave her to go home 
 alone as soon as they had circled the village. 
 
 "The thorn does not hurt now, and I could 
 dance perfectly well in bare feet on this grass." 
 
 She took her arm from about the tree and 
 turned to him. He w r as smiling. 
 
 "Ah," said she, "you are not vexed any more. 
 . . . Let us dance, then! ... In all my life I 
 have never danced with a tall man ..." 
 
 All Kent s mastered turbulencies swept back 
 upon him in a rush. To hold that buoyant 
 figure in his arms out here in the wide night, 
 alone, he and she ... to turn and turn with 
 her against his breast, to that crude yet stirring 
 peasant music ... to feel the intimate perfume 
 
 207
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 of her hair in his nostrils, the pliant hand palm to 
 palm with his . . . this would be ... 
 
 "No," he said, curtly, "we really have no time. 
 It must be well after two o clock ..." 
 
 "Why should people spoil everything with 
 clocks ? . . . What has time to do with this free 
 night? . . . Come, let us dance ..." said the 
 girl, wilfully. 
 
 "I assure you . . . really ..." began Kent. 
 But she broke in: 
 
 "No. . . . No. . . . We must. . . . Just one 
 dance, as the fauns and dryads dance on little 
 lawns like this. ... It will be such a nice thing 
 to remember. I dance very well indeed," she 
 added, naively, as she saw him waver. "As well 
 as I swim . . . truly." 
 
 "Viva Dio!" exclaimed he, with a short laugh 
 that she would have recognized as reckless had 
 she known more of men. "Let us dance, then. . . ." 
 
 He took a step forward, put his arm about her ; 
 she laid her hand in his, and their full pulses beat 
 into one. At that contact both were drowned 
 in a wave of mutual consciousness that swayed 
 as they swayed, dancing with them. . . . The 
 strident throbbing of the mandolins seemed to 
 pass into their blood. . . . The girl moved in a 
 trance, the man in a fierce glow of pleasure. 
 When he stopped suddenly she swayed where 
 she stood, and he held her upright, his arm still 
 about her. 
 
 208
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 They gazed into each other s pale faces, ab 
 sorbed, forgetful of all else for the moment. . . . 
 
 At last Dione said, under her breath : 
 
 "How pale you are! ... Am I pale, too?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very pale?" 
 
 "Yes . . . very. . . ." 
 
 There was a pause. Still they stood there, 
 unconsciously clasping tighter and tighter their 
 interlaced fingers. 
 
 "In this light," whispered Dione, presently, 
 not knowing that she was whispering, "your eyes 
 are black. ... In the day they are blue." 
 
 "Your eyes are black also. . . . And deep 
 . . . deep." 
 
 He bent nearer, gazing into them. Suddenly 
 the girl released her hand and pressed it over 
 them. 
 
 "I am giddy ... I do not know what it 
 is . . ." she faltered. 
 
 In an instant Kent had helped her to a sort of 
 chair among the oak roots. 
 
 " We danced too long . . . that is all," he said, 
 in a stifled voice. "Rest there a minute, and 
 then we must go on." 
 
 Before long Dione got to her feet, and they 
 continued on their way toward Vareggw in 
 silence. When they had passed round Arlino, 
 and reached the footpath through the fields near 
 her home, Kent stopped. 
 14 209
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "It is better that I should leave you to go the 
 rest of the way alone," he said, speaking very 
 quietly, "but I shall stay here and watch until 
 you are safe within the gate." 
 
 "Thank you," said Dione, in a scarcely audible 
 voice. She was still faint and giddy with the 
 spinning of that strange new fire through her 
 veins. 
 
 "It is nothing," said Kent. "Just one thing 
 more, though ... I want you to make me a 
 promise. I want you to promise me that you 
 will never again do such a mad thing as you have 
 done to-night." 
 
 For a second she felt that same recoil at the 
 man-dominance in his tone which she had felt on 
 first meeting him. Then a sweet rush of emotion 
 totally new to her swept it away. 
 
 "Would it pain you if I did not promise?" she 
 asked, softly. 
 
 "It would, indeed," he answered, with un 
 mistakable earnestness. 
 
 "Then . . . though I hate promising. . . my 
 father taught me never to make promises ... I 
 will promise you." 
 
 "Thank you from my heart," said Kent. 
 
 He did not seem to see her outstretched hand, 
 but merely bowed as she said "Good-night" and 
 left him. 
 
 Then, when she had passed from sight, he threw 
 himself down, head on arms, in the field-grasses, 
 
 210
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 utterly spent, his brain a whirl of remorse . . . 
 at odds with himself, with her, with the whole 
 world. He lay there for more than an hour. 
 When he rose to return to Ceredo the dawn was 
 whitening along the sky. 
 
 Kent made up his mind in short order that 
 morning. There is but one thing for me to do, " 
 he told himself, "and that is to get away until 
 Gigino comes back. I will go to Milan on the 
 pretext of reading in the Ambrosiana for my 
 play, and stop there until next Wednesday. For 
 we are not just playing with fire, that wild girl 
 and I we are hurling it at each other," he wound 
 up, with a flash of his usual whimsicality. 
 
 So he went by the twelve-o clock boat that 
 day, and established himself in his usual quarters 
 in the Varoni s house, now empty and shrouded 
 for the summer, with only old Guiseppe, the 
 butler and his wife, to look after it. 
 
 The weather was suffocating, and he bored 
 himself abominably; but the sense of even a 
 somewhat tardy right -doing braced him and 
 made things bearable. Never, in all his experi 
 ence, though, had a week seemed of such dura 
 tion. He missed his swims in the lake, his long 
 walks among the mountains more than these, 
 he missed Dione in a fashion that startled him 
 missed her talk, so quaintly frank and original, 
 her rare, soft laughter, her love of the things 
 
 211
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 that he loved ... in a word, her companion 
 ship. 
 
 He still slept badly, and all night long he woke 
 at intervals, roused by some vivid dream of her 
 with the pang as of an actual sword in his flesh. 
 Now he was swimming again with her to meet 
 the storm. . . . Now she laid her hand in his for 
 the first time, as on the lawn at Rocca Moro. . . . 
 Now he held her in his arms again, after that wild 
 dance by midnight above Arlino . . . and she 
 whispered to him, "How pale you are! . . . Am 
 I pale, too ?" Again, it was as if he had told her 
 the whole truth at last, and she lay sobbing face 
 down upon the ground, a wild, free, primal thing 
 in anguish, not to be comforted. . . . 
 
 From this last dream he started up with the 
 sweat on his forehead. 
 
 Lord God !" he said. It can t be that I was 
 beginning to love her really?" 
 
 And he dressed himself, though it was long past 
 midnight, and went out and walked until day. 
 
 "The young Signore is surely returning this 
 week, is he not, Beppino ?" he asked the old butler 
 on the fourth morning of his exile. "There is 
 no mistake about it, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, Signore . . . there is no mistake. But 
 the young Signore will go direct to the Signora 
 Varoni at Pallanza. . . . He will not stop in 
 Milan even for a night. ... So he wrote last, 
 Signore." 
 
 212
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Then that is all right," Kent told himself, 
 with a sigh of relief. And I shall be able to get 
 out of this furnace of dreariness by Wednesday 
 afternoon." 
 
 That same evening he sat at a little table in the 
 Galleria. In spite of the sultry heat a constant 
 stream of people passed back and forth. He 
 recognized some faces that he used to see years 
 ago, faces that one never saw during the day, 
 that only appeared at night in the Galleria ; and 
 their owners argued excitedly, stopping to do so, 
 and seeming to gather force from their motionless 
 legs to put into the gesticulations of their arms 
 and hands. 
 
 Now and then a group would drift out of the 
 stream, and, eddying along its edge, settle round 
 one of the little tables before a cafe. And thus 
 it was all day long, he remembered, only the 
 crowd varied with the time of day. The morning 
 was the time of the Gigioni, the rank and file of 
 singers who gathered here from North and South 
 America, from St. Petersburg, London, Vienna, 
 to brag about their exploits and look out for new 
 scritture. At noon they vanished, giving way to 
 the curb-market that spread from the near-by 
 stock exchange. Then came evening, and the 
 crowd of habitues out for a constitutional and 
 the chance of meeting some one with whom to 
 chat. This crowd again thinned toward mid 
 night, when the audience of the surrounding 
 
 213
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Manzoni, Filodrammatici or the Scala, would 
 fill the place once more, this time with dis 
 cussions over a new play or opera, far more 
 lively than would be elicited in England or 
 America by the last news of an important bat 
 tle. 
 
 Then each cafe would become the club of a dif 
 ferent set, the smartest, however, where art 
 mingled with aristocracy, being the ristorante 
 Cova, outside the Galleria. And now memories 
 of months spent here caught hold of him again 
 with their special charm, and he decided that 
 this charm came from the wide diversity of 
 Italian minds. No two thought alike on the 
 same questions, while each opinion had its own 
 fascinating touch of individual truth. What ex 
 cellent literary, dramatic, and musical criticisms 
 he had heard here! What splendid schemes for 
 dramas and novels had been sketched in his 
 presence by indefinitely future authors, who next 
 morning forgot all about it, or postponed work 
 until yet another day! 
 
 He especially recalled one young fellow, a 
 clerk at the Municipio, who, while grinding me 
 chanically at his office task all day, concocted at 
 the same time the most delightful tales, which 
 he would tell at night to an eager group of ar 
 tists round one of these very tables. And though 
 these little masterpieces might have brought him 
 fame and money, he was quite content with the 
 214
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 delight of his small audience, and never wrote 
 one down. . . . 
 
 Kent sighed restlessly, and wished that he 
 would turn up now. Dione s face had just 
 floated before him, and he wished exceedingly 
 not to think of Dione. 
 
 A voice close by startled him a big, resonant 
 voice that he knew. 
 
 "Come! . . . Lei qua?" it said. 
 
 Kent turned, and jumped to his feet. It was 
 his fencing-master of old days, Giordano Vanzi. 
 
 Their gladness was mutual. They shook hands 
 boyishly again and again, and Vanzi, who was 
 an enthusiast in "the noblest art of chivalry," 
 as he termed it, and regarded it as a mission, in 
 quired eagerly whether Kent had kept up his 
 fencing. 
 
 "You are made for it," he said, just as he used 
 to do. "Tall and supple as you are, I back my 
 self to bring you invincible to any torneo. We ll 
 have one next autumn. You must come to the 
 sala to-morrow and get limbered up." 
 
 Kent accepted with glee. For over a year now 
 he had not touched a foil he was ashamed to say, 
 however, and feared that he would be rather 
 rusty. 
 
 "Elbow grease will soon wear away that rust," 
 said Vanzi. "When once the foundations are 
 sound they stay forever. One can t forget how 
 to fence any more than how to swim." 
 
 215
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 They talked and talked. With Vanzi the con 
 versation could not drift away from fencing. 
 His dream was to go to England to proselytize, 
 and he had always hoped that Kent would help 
 him to that end. 
 
 "But, my dear friend," said Kent, when Vanzi 
 urged this on him, "you wouldn t be at all happy 
 in England. In a country where boxing is the 
 national method of fighting, and where duelling 
 is extinct, people will never devote the time to 
 fencing that they do here. With rare excep 
 tions it never goes beyond a very amateurish 
 performance with us. Here you can keep your 
 pupils for two years, taking lessons every morn 
 ing and practising exercises every afternoon, be 
 fore you allow them to start in bouts. In Eng 
 land they begin that sort of thing after six 
 months. . . . Even women can fence the way 
 that we fence in England, and many do . . ." 
 
 "I ve nothing against women fencing," said 
 Vanzi. "There is a young Signorina of the no 
 bility here whom I am teaching, and she is getting 
 on capitally . . . but capitally. . . . When one 
 comes to think of it, there are as good acrobats 
 among women as among men." 
 
 "That is true," said Kent. And suddenly there 
 was Dione before him again, in fencing costume 
 this time, foil in hand. He almost started visibly 
 at the suddenness of the inward sight and the 
 thought that came with it, for here was one way 
 
 216
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 out of his perplexity a way that, since he had 
 to keep on seeing her, would allow him to do so 
 with less danger to them both. 
 
 "Yes," he thought, as Vanzi went on expound 
 ing his theories, "I shall give her lessons in 
 fencing . . . she will love it, and during the 
 lessons I shall just stick to matter-of-fact busi 
 ness. And after them she will be too dead tired 
 to want to talk or do anything but rest for a 
 while. . . . Yes, that is it. ... That is cer 
 tainly a first-rate solution. . . ." 
 
 That he was right in supposing a good lesson 
 to be tiring he found out next morning when he 
 went to the Sala di Scherma for a bout with 
 Vanzi. 
 
 He had not thought that one could deteriorate 
 so in a year. His position needed continuous 
 correction which, after the efficacious method of 
 Vanzi, came down in sharp tappings of the mas 
 ter s foil on the inside of his knees, never suf 
 ficiently bent outward, and on his chest, never 
 sufficiently effaced in profile. After half an hour 
 of this he was drenched with perspiration and 
 his thighs quivered. 
 
 That night he slept better, and woke next 
 morning quite refreshed. 
 
 "Yes," he thought, exultantly, "the very 
 thing! . . . I ll just take back a pair of foils and 
 a couple of masks, and teach her fencing. ... It 
 will solve a lot of puzzles." 
 
 217
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 In this way he could avoid seeing her too often 
 or too intimately, and yet not wound her, nor 
 rouse Varoni s questionings. 
 
 "The very thing . . . the very thing ..." 
 he repeated to himself. When we chance to be 
 alone, a fencing-lesson. When there is a ques 
 tion of sailing, take Gigino along too." 
 
 Thus Kent, who imagined that he was think 
 ing his own thoughts, and was merely deciding 
 what destiny had already decided.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHEN he reached Ceredo again he found, to 
 his dismay, a letter from Varoni awaiting 
 him, in which his friend said that he would be 
 detained in London for another ten days or so. 
 This seemed to Kent a very unfair thrust on the 
 part of Fate. Then he determined that he 
 would not go near the Rupins until sheer civility 
 forced him to, and settled down into a calmer 
 frame of mind. 
 
 It was the fourth day after his arrival. He 
 was seated in the battered old steamer-chair 
 which usually accompanied him on his travels, 
 and which he liked to use when writing, and had 
 just forced himself to concentrate all his mind 
 on the opening of the second act of his "Leo 
 nardo." He felt quieter than for many days past. 
 Some of the old creative mood had returned to 
 him. He drew a long breath of content, and 
 took out the silver pencil with its indelible lead 
 point that he used instead of a pen. 
 
 He had but just begun the description of the 
 scene when there came a low knock at his door. 
 
 "Avanti!" he called with considerable impa- 
 219
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 tience, then sprang to his feet as the slowly 
 opening door revealed Dione upon his threshold. 
 
 "Signorina!" he cried. "You here! . . .Good 
 God ! What has happened ? 
 
 "Nothing has happened," said Dione. "I 
 only came because I felt that you might never 
 come to me again. . . . And ... I ... un 
 derstood. And ... I ... wanted to ... ex 
 plain if ... I could." 
 
 She was deadly pale. Even her bright lips 
 looked dim, and under her eyes there were dark 
 stains as from sleeplessness. 
 
 "You . . . you ..." stammered Kent, lit 
 erally dumfounded. Then he caught himself up 
 with a gasp. 
 
 "But, Signorina," he urged, going over and 
 standing beside her, "you cannot stay here. . . . 
 Come, I will go back with you immediately." 
 
 "Wait," faltered Dione, paler than ever. "I 
 do not remember ever being tired before . . . 
 but to-day I am very tired. I must rest just a 
 moment. . . . May I sit here?" 
 
 Kent placed a chair for her without a word. 
 He was on thorns. Could it be possible that 
 this girl lived in the twentieth century, and yet 
 did not see that she was doing an unheard-of, 
 unimaginable thing ? 
 
 The next moment she lifted her clear, puzzled 
 eyes to his, and said: 
 
 "Why cannot I stay a few moments? ... I 
 220
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 know that it is not conventional to come to 
 speak to you in your own rooms, but it is morn 
 ing it is very early. No one could think harm 
 of it." 
 
 Kent felt really distracted. 
 
 "Signorina," he said, earnestly, after a second s 
 hesitation, "let me assure you that people do 
 not wait for sufficient causes before they think 
 harm of others. Now that you are rested you 
 must come with me at once. Heaven only grant 
 that no one has seen you mount these stairs." 
 
 "Only Laura," said Dione, sadly, "and she 
 has loved me since I was a little baby, and could 
 not be made to think harm of me. But I will 
 go at once, since you think it necessary." 
 
 They went down-stairs together, and out by 
 an unfrequented way overhanging the lake, 
 toward Vareggio. 
 
 The girl s intense pallor and darkened eyes 
 gave Kent s heart a sickening twist. 
 
 I care more than I thought ... I care more 
 than I thought," he reflected, wretchedly. 
 "Poor child! She has been suffering savagely 
 . . . she is suffering now . . . and I can t take 
 her in my arms and comfort her. No, God! I 
 can t. ... I won t do that." 
 
 He was almost as pale as she when he turned 
 from the road and made her sit beside him on 
 the already purpling heather. Below them the 
 lake sheened milkily under the tramontana. The 
 
 221
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 sky was full of those long, streaming clouds that 
 are called "mares tails." 
 
 "Now," said Kent in a gentle voice, as though 
 speaking to a distressed child, and aching to take 
 the slight hand that trembled among the heather 
 and press it close to his breast "now tell me, 
 Signorina, how I can help you . . . and what it 
 was that brought you to me this morning." 
 
 To his infinite dismay Dione suddenly covered 
 her face with both hands and bowed down her 
 head against them. 
 
 "Dione . . . my poor little Dione, what is it ?" 
 he said, in a shaking voice. He clenched his 
 hand in order not to lay it upon that bowed 
 head. "Tell me ... tell me . . ." he urged. 
 "Something terrible must have happened. . . . 
 Won t you tell me, Dione ?" 
 
 From behind her screening hands she spoke in 
 a low voice, and he had to bend close to hear what 
 it was that she said. She stammered, caught 
 her breath . . . went on with difficulty. 
 
 "That night . . . that night . . . the night 
 w r e . . . found each other ... on the . . . 
 mountain . . . when you . . . went away . . . 
 it all ... came to me . . . you thought me a 
 . . . shameless girl. . . . You would not ..." 
 
 But Kent had both her wrists in a fierce grasp. 
 "Don t say such things to me!" he cried, thickly. 
 "I forbid you . . . I forbid you to say such things. 
 You little know ..." He broke off helpless. 
 
 222
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Tell her all the truth now. Now is the time, 
 urged a voice within him. "Tell her all of it 
 . . . don t leave out one jot or one tittle. Now, 
 before she looks at you again, tell her the truth, 
 and set her and yourself free of this tangle." 
 
 "No, not now," urged another voice, still 
 stronger. "You would be a brute to tell her 
 now, when she is in this agony of shame. What 
 you must do now is to clear her in her own eyes, 
 to make her know beyond a doubt that you 
 think of her as pure and good and maidenly. 
 Later . . . yes, later you must tell her. That is 
 your plain duty as a man. But not now . . . 
 not as she is now." 
 
 "Listen, Dione," he said, in a quieter voice; 
 "first of all I want to swear to you on my 
 mother s honour that I respect you as I respect 
 her. Do you believe me ?" 
 
 The girl began to tremble from head to foot. 
 The little sprays of heather that leaned against 
 her shook with that heartrending tremour. He 
 had no further doubt as to whether or not he 
 loved her. His whole strength was taken in 
 keeping himself from laying so much as a finger 
 upon her piteously shaken body. And to this 
 his care-free selfishness had reduced her Dione, 
 the untouched, the self-sufficing. 
 
 "Dione," he said again, his voice all hoarse 
 and broken, "won t you say a word to me? . . . 
 Won t you tell me that you believe me?" 
 
 223
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 She nodded her head, still unable to speak, and 
 the trembling abated somewhat. 
 
 "Don t ... be sad . . ." she said, on catch 
 ing breaths, "I ... do ... believe you." 
 
 "God be praised," said Kent. 
 
 He felt suddenly sick, as after a heavy fall. 
 And they sat there together, wordless and 
 stricken, for some moments. 
 
 "I ... thought . . ." whispered Dione again, 
 "that you . . . meant to ... to ... show me 
 what . . . you . . . thought ... of me ... by 
 keeping . . . away from me." 
 
 "But now you know . . . you know forever, 
 do you not?" 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. 
 
 "Thank God," said Kent again, and again there 
 fell silence between them. 
 
 Presently Dione said, in a new, exquisitely shy 
 voice : 
 
 "I ... I ... thank you for ... not . . . 
 kissing me." 
 
 Kent almost burst into hysteric laughter. It 
 was well that she was not looking at him, for his 
 face twisted into a really horrible grimace. He 
 mastered himself by a great effort, and said, 
 quietly: "Why, Dione?" 
 
 "I ... could not . . . bear it ... now," 
 she faltered. 
 
 Then Kent took his lower self in both hands 
 and bent it down under him. 
 
 224
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Listen, Dione," he said, and his voice was so 
 unnatural that she dropped her hands and 
 looked up at him. But he did not look at 
 her. He was livid, and his face a new face 
 to her. 
 
 She put up a hand to her heart, and sat quite 
 still, just gazing at him with parted lips. Pres 
 ently, as he did not continue, she said, whispering : 
 
 "I listen." 
 
 Kent s lips were dry, and his voice sounded 
 cracked in his own ears. 
 
 "There are . . . reasons," he said, "why I 
 . . . cannot . . . say all that I would like to say 
 to you . . . now, Dione." 
 
 She crept a little nearer to him through the 
 heather. 
 
 "Do not be sad," she said, caressingly. "If 
 you have . . . reasons, I know that they are 
 good ones ..." 
 
 "Oh, Dione!" he groaned, and in his turn 
 dropped down his face into his hands. 
 
 "I . . ." said Dione, with both hands at her 
 breast now, "I can bear my own sadness, but 
 your sadness I cannot bear." 
 
 "And I," said Kent, "am a coward and a 
 brute . . . and I have no right to love you . . . 
 but I do love you." 
 
 "Oh," broke forth the girl on a sort of sob, "I 
 knew it! ... I knew it! ... Evoe Pan!" 
 
 Kent stared at her. He thought for a dizzy in- 
 15 225
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 stant that she had really gone mad. But she 
 turned on him such a radiant face, as she knelt 
 before him on the heather with both arms up- 
 tossed, that he could only marvel at her in 
 silence. 
 
 "Since that is true," she said, "nothing else 
 matters . . . nothing else in all the world. . . . 
 Evoe, Evoe, Evoe Pan!" 
 
 "Dione," said Kent, taking one of her uplifted 
 hands for the first time, and drawing her down 
 beside him, "do not cry so loudly. Some passer 
 by might hear you. What is it ?" he added. I 
 do not understand at all." 
 
 Then close to him, yet not touching him, she 
 told him of her pilgrimage by night to Pan s 
 Mountain, and of the libation that she had 
 poured and all the prayer that she had made. 
 
 Kent felt breathless, as though in some mad 
 dream he were being made the sport of beautiful 
 and terrible imaginings. 
 
 "You did that, Dione?" he said at last, "and 
 you think you really think that Pan sent me 
 to you?" 
 
 "Yes . . . I think it," said Dione. "What 
 do you think?" 
 
 "I think," said Kent, slowly, "that no one like 
 you has lived on earth these two thousand years 
 and more." 
 
 "But you will not be sad now?" 
 
 "Ah, you have forgotten those reasons of 
 226
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 which I spoke to you those reasons that keep 
 us apart, Dione . . . that must keep us apart." 
 
 "They will melt . . . vanish . . . like a va 
 pour," she said, happily. 
 
 "They are as solid as the Stone of Iron there, 
 now, Dione." 
 
 "They will pass," she said again. "They will 
 open before us like the air. And then ... do 
 you remember the song of The Fierce Maiden ? 
 And then you will say to me, Thou art mine. 
 And to you I will say, I am thine. 
 
 "O Dione, Dione, Dione!" was all that he 
 could answer her.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 KENT was like a man who, handling care 
 lessly a thread across his way, finds that it is 
 a live wire from which he cannot loosen his grasp. 
 He recalled an actual sight of this kind which 
 he had once happened upon in Vienna, and the 
 simile seemed more apt and just than ever. In 
 that instance a poor devil, seeing a wire sagging 
 before him, had taken hold of it to put it aside, 
 and when Kent came upon the scene a small 
 crowd was laughing at the grimaces and antics 
 of the unfortunate wretch, whom they thought 
 drunk. All the while, however, the man was not 
 drunk but dead. 
 
 "Yes," thought Kent, grimly, "my mental 
 squirmings and contortions must seem drunken 
 indeed to the gods who look on in the figurative 
 Vienna, and I know myself quite well as dead 
 to all sense of honor. But I shall rise again . . . 
 yes, I shall rise again, if not on the third day, 
 then on the fourth, or fifth, or sixth . . . give 
 me time, give me time. A woman who has just 
 given birth to a child cannot get up and fight at 
 once. And love has been torn from my side like 
 
 228
 
 PAN S MOUNTAI N 
 
 a child from a woman. . . . There is no health 
 in me ... I am sick to the marrow ... I can 
 not fight even the desire to fight is dead in me 
 just now. . . . Her mate! She prayed to Pan 
 for her mate to be sent her poor, lovely, fearless 
 old-time Greek, born by mischance into this flat, 
 twentieth century, where women avoid child- 
 bearing, and divide their self-conscious loves into 
 spiritual and physical hemispheres. Her mate 
 she asked for, pouring libation to Pan. . . . Has 
 there ever been such a poem lived as that in this 
 age of flying-machines and motor-cars? . . . 
 And that their sons might be strong and wise. 
 . . . Dione . . . daughter of earth and sky, 
 mother of Venus. . . . You are rightly named 
 Dione ! Dione ! And though I was faithless, and 
 did not pour libation to the fierce old gods, nor 
 ask that you should be sent to me . . . you are 
 my mate also. And shall I put you from me for 
 a dull convention? . . . Shall I take my mate, 
 my you, and set her aside at the bidding of that 
 pawky wench custom ? Shall I give my ideal a 
 bill of divorce ? Shall I thrust her from my bed 
 and board forever, and lay me down by the tepid 
 side of propriety ? God ! You ask too much of 
 man. You made him flesh, and require him to 
 be spirit. Oh," groaned he, halting suddenly in 
 his savage circlings about his room, "what is the 
 use of all this bombast ? . . . She has taken me 
 for her mate because she believes me to be a 
 
 229
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 man. And like a man I must act to her, not like 
 a brute beast . . . not like the mule which 
 hath no understanding and taketh the bit in his 
 jaws. . . . But give me time, give me time . . ." 
 
 And throwing himself down upon his bed he 
 buried his face in his arms, and lay there, gazing 
 upon Dione against the spangled darkness of his 
 eyelids as though she had been actually present. 
 Complete and rounded as her strong young body, 
 he saw w T ith his mind s eye her nature also. 
 Lover and mother in one ... no broken arc, 
 but the perfect round, here on earth. Her mate 
 she desired and his children she desired also. 
 And the beautiful flesh of her was afire with 
 imagination. And out of her grave eyes looked 
 mind and character, as well as love, and all the 
 dizzying promises of woman to the chosen from 
 among men. There was something about her as 
 spacious and tender as the blue lift in summer. 
 And though he felt that this figurative heaven 
 could lighten and thunder also, it seemed to him 
 only the more desirable for its possibility of 
 storm. Again she was like the dark earth, her 
 mother, with something of fatefulness and mys 
 tery hidden under all the burgeoning sweetness. 
 That, too, he loved. 
 
 She had in her the primeval force of air, of 
 fire, of water ; would be as bright and dangerous 
 to mishandle as a sword of flame. 
 
 Yes, my mate, my mate, my mate. And 
 230
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 shall I give you up? No, by God!" he cried, 
 springing to his feet. "Somehow, sometime, 
 somewhere ... I shall win you ... I shall 
 take you ... I shall have and hold you 
 forever!" 
 
 When he next saw Dione, which was on the 
 afternoon following, he tried to make clear to her 
 as best he could, without telling her what he 
 could not yet bring himself to tell her, why he 
 must not see her too often. 
 
 She listened seriously, with eyes sometimes 
 downcast, sometimes fastened on his. 
 
 "Do you understand?" he asked at last, when 
 he had finished. "Do you understand, Dione 
 . . . my love, my dearest ? Do you realize that 
 it is a torture for me to sit near you like this, 
 and yet not to touch so much as your beautiful 
 hand ? . . . That I am like a man dying of thirst 
 who must strike the full cup from his own lips ? 
 I am brave enough to say I dare not. . . . Do 
 you understand what that means, Dione? . . . 
 Do you? Do you?" 
 
 "I understand," said she, "that you have 
 strong reasons. And as I trust you wholly I 
 know those reasons to be good ones. And since 
 we love each other what is a little waiting ? . . . 
 It is hard, yes. But one has to pay for all things. 
 The greater the love the bigger the price. That 
 is all, is it not ? We can help each other during 
 this waiting by trusting each other." 
 
 231
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Kent felt all his being shake to its roots. He 
 turned away so that she could not see his face 
 and the girl stood quietly beside him and said 
 nothing for some moments. Then she asked: 
 
 "But you will come sometimes and give me 
 the lessons in fencing, will you not?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "And we can swim together now and then?" 
 
 "Yes, Dione." 
 
 "And sometimes I may sail with you?" 
 
 "Yes ... we will take Cecca." 
 
 "It seems a pity," said Dione, thoughtfully, 
 "she is so afraid. And I need not sit near you. 
 I could sit on deck, near the mast, with Ma- 
 sciett." 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" said Kent, and hid his face 
 upon her sleeve. The next instant he had her 
 on his breast, holding her as against a world in 
 arms. As suddenly he let her go. They stood 
 looking at each other whitely. 
 
 "You see . . . you see . . ." he stammered. 
 
 "Yes . . ." said Dione, trembling a little. 
 "I see . . . I will be good . . . I will not . . ." 
 she paused, and pushed back her clinging hair, 
 and her full throat quivered like a child s after 
 sobbing. "I will not . . . ask to sail with you 
 . . . any more," she ended in a whisper. 
 
 He kept faith with himself and her, was true 
 to his word, and came only every two or three 
 
 232
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 days to give her a lesson in fencing. As he had 
 foreseen, she made a remarkable pupil, and she 
 was a delight to look at in her short kirtle and 
 blouse, with beautiful slim legs uncovered to the 
 knees, and pliant feet that grasped the earth like 
 a boy s. Gravely they would salute each other, 
 sword over head, in one of the most perfect poses 
 known to the human body, and then for an hour 
 there would be only the click of steel between 
 them, and the necessary words of question and 
 instruction. But her heart sang all the while, 
 "My beloved is mine and I am his," and all the 
 while he was saying to himself, in the words of 
 poor Keats, "I wish I was either in your arms 
 ... or that a thunderbolt would strike me." 
 
 This lasted for ten days. Then one evening 
 Dione said to Cecca: 
 
 "Cecca mia, I have something to tell you 
 which I would tell to no one else in the world." 
 
 And Cecca said: 
 
 "Tell on, Tesoro mio. You know well that I 
 am a tomb for secrets." 
 
 "Dear tomb!" said Dione, flinging an arm 
 about her neck and pressing a fresh cheek to hers, 
 "this is a secret indeed." 
 
 "I listen, my joy," said Cecca. 
 
 "It is this," said Dione, pressing close to her. 
 "The Signore Kent and I love each other, and 
 will be married some day." 
 
 "Viva Dio! Bring forth men children only!" 
 233
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 cried Cecca, in the words of Macbeth, though she 
 said them in dialect. "Figli maschi! The 
 Virgin has prospered it! A fine pair you will 
 make, treasure of my heart. And you who are 
 always wishing for a son. Eh! What a son 
 there will be of that mating!" 
 
 "Yes," said Dione, "we shall have splendid 
 sons. But that is enough of that, Cecca mia. 
 What I want now is that you should come down 
 to the osier ia with me and sit on the shore while 
 I go for a short swim with the Signore. We will 
 not swim far, and no harm can be said if you are 
 there. And mamma is in Pallanza for the even 
 ing, and soon the moon will be coming up over 
 the Sasso. And I want to see it rise with him, 
 from the water." 
 
 "It seems to me that you have as many rea 
 sons as wishes," said Cecca, a little grumblingly. 
 However, as you two are going to marry, there 
 would be no harm in it, I suppose. When does 
 the Signore speak to la mamma?" 
 
 "I do not wish him to speak yet," said Dione. 
 "I wish our secret to be just our own for some 
 time longer." 
 
 "Not for too long, Gioia," said her nurse, with 
 a certain note of anxiety in her voice. 
 
 No, not for too long ; for only as long as I wish." 
 
 "Long waitings are not good for man and 
 maid," said Cecca, firmly. "It seems to me 
 that you are doing a foolishness." 
 
 234
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "No," said Dione, as firmly, "I am not doing 
 a foolishness. Of that you may be quite 
 sure." 
 
 And with this Cecca had to content herself. 
 
 She sat with her knitting on the shore, and 
 watched while Kent and Dione went forward 
 into the starlit water. "Madonna guard her! 
 St. Joseph punish him if he be not good to her!" 
 said she, in her heart. 
 
 They swam, at first, through soft, gray reaches, 
 touched here and there by flecks from the clear 
 stars; then, all at once, that quickening glow 
 began to spread behind Pan s Mountain. The 
 moon was coming slowly, delicately up, like a 
 tired queen from her pleasure. 
 
 Kent looked at the little, drenched head be 
 side him, with its thrice-wound snood of black 
 ribbon. The water parted in a gleaming thread 
 of silver about her throat, on its silver edge her 
 round chin rested lightly. Strongly, rhythmic 
 ally, her white arms cleaved a way, stroke for 
 stroke with him. 
 
 "Dione," he said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "How long could you swim with me like this ?" 
 
 "Until we sank together." 
 
 Would you rather sink with me than go back 
 without me?" 
 
 "You know." 
 
 235
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "If we sank together now we should be saved 
 great pain, Dione." 
 
 "I will bear great pain for you willingly." 
 
 They swam on in silence. 
 
 The moon s rim peered all at once, deep as coral. 
 
 "See!" said Dione. "She is like a flower all 
 rosy." 
 
 "No, she is blushing . . . love makes her 
 rosy. She has just come up out of Endymion s 
 cave." 
 
 "But presently Pan will frighten her. Then 
 she will grow pale again." 
 
 "Dione . . ." 
 
 "Yes . . ." 
 
 "I would you were the Lady Diana and I the 
 shepherd of Latmos, and that you were rosy like 
 the moon." 
 
 "Let us swim to Latmos." 
 
 "Alas! I fear that your geography is at fault, 
 Dione." 
 
 "But all waters touch all shores in dreams." 
 
 "Then let us swim to Latmos." 
 
 "Come, then, Endymion." 
 
 Now the moon hung clear before them. Pan 
 had alarmed her, and she was pale indeed. They 
 swam along her silver trail toward the shadow of 
 his mountain. 
 
 "See," said Dione, "it leads straight to the 
 grotto where I poured him libation and asked 
 him to send you to me." 
 
 236
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Let us go there together and make thank- 
 offering." 
 
 "Not to-night; it is much too far to swim, but 
 some time, yes, we will go there together. Let 
 us float for a while now." 
 
 They floated side by side, gazing up into the 
 vast splendor above them. 
 
 "This it is to be in the hollow of God s hand," 
 said Kent at last. 
 
 "There is no world any more," said Dione, 
 dreamily; "it has dropped away from us ... 
 there is only space and love about us." 
 
 "Is not that enough?" 
 
 "It is enough," said Dione. 
 
 They swam again for a while, this time to a lit 
 tle inlet about twenty yards from where Cecca sat 
 with her knitting, and rested on the dry grasses. 
 The night was very hot. The cicadas piped 
 faintly as though in sleep. 
 
 "Dione," said Kent, suddenly, "tell me this. 
 . . . Would you refuse to live out your life with 
 a man whom you loved if he could not marry 
 you after the formal custom of the world ? If 
 there were some deadly bar to it? And if he 
 loved you with all his soul and body, and meant 
 to be truly your husband as long as he lived ? 
 Would you send him from you ? . . . Would you 
 wreck him just for that ?" 
 
 "If I thought only of myself . . . no, I would 
 not leave him," answered Dione, "But as I 
 
 237
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 said once, it is the children one must think of 
 . . . one must not wrong one s unborn children. 
 ... To bring them into the world without a 
 name or place . . . that would be a black 
 wrong. . . . That is the worst wrong that I can 
 think of." 
 
 "But to be born of a great love, is not that 
 more than any name ? Then are men and women 
 truly poets, makers . . . when they create a 
 child out of a mighty love." 
 
 "You have your name," said Dione, "and you 
 have made it famous. . . . You cannot judge." 
 
 "Before God, I would rather be born of a great 
 love than inherit a great name." 
 
 You think so, said Dione, because you have 
 the great name already. But if men had the 
 right to call you bastard . . . then all would 
 seem different to you." 
 
 "Do you think a woman could ever hate the 
 man whom she had once loved with all her self ?" 
 
 "If he wronged her child I think she might 
 hate him. Do you not remember the Fierce 
 Maiden ? It was for that which cried beneath 
 her heart without a voice, . . . for her unborn 
 child that he had wronged, that she killed her 
 lover. You remember, do you not?" 
 
 "Could you kill one whom you had loved, for 
 any reason?" 
 
 "I might wish to kill him ... I might even 
 go mad for a little while and really kill him. 
 
 238
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 How do I know ? . . . You make my heart very 
 heavy with these strange questions." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! forgive me. . . . My heart is 
 very heavy, too." 
 
 "Think only of our love . . . then your 
 heart will not be heavy any longer." 
 
 "My life. . . . My heart s blood." 
 
 "Yes, my life is in you, and yours in me. The 
 breath that we breathe with is one breath. And 
 now we must go back." 
 
 "Dream of me. . . . Come into my dreams, 
 Dione," said Kent, passionately, as they parted 
 for the night. "Even sleep without you is in 
 tolerable." 
 
 "If I can, oh, be very sure that I will come, my 
 one, life s love!" she answered, with both hands 
 against her breast.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 VARONI returned the next day, and the day 
 after asked Dione to be his wife. She re 
 fused gently, with deep feeling, for his earnest 
 and immovable love was revealed to her clearly 
 in that short half hour; besides, her own love 
 had already made her much softer in many ways. 
 
 "Signorina," said he, very pale but very quiet, 
 "you will pardon me, I know, for reminding you 
 that you are still very young ... I mention it 
 only because I wish to say that in time you may 
 change while with me change is impossible. 
 Should that day ever come, Signorina, I shall be 
 there, always the same . . . always waiting." 
 
 Then he went to see Kent. 
 
 "Alareec," he said, with the same quietness, 
 it has happened as you foresaw. The Signorina 
 Rupin has refused me and yet . . ."he broke 
 off, looking at the other keenly, I think that I 
 may say without egotism that I could have 
 taught her to love me had she only trusted her 
 self to my keeping." 
 
 "Can love ever be taught ?" asked Kent, not 
 returning his look, but gazing down at the silver 
 
 240
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 pencil with which he had been working when his 
 friend entered. 
 
 "Not all kinds of love, perhaps," said Varoni, 
 "but a very steadfast, beautiful affection may be 
 won by the man who sets his whole life to the 
 task ... as I would have set mine. Of that I 
 am sure. And perhaps ... in the end . . . 
 such a love is better than the blaze of passion 
 with which most loves begin." He seemed to 
 await Kent s reply. 
 
 "My dear Gigino," answered the other, 
 moodily, "not one of us knows the first damn 
 thing about love, after all. And I can t help 
 thinking that if a woman does not love a man to 
 begin with, it is a very fortunate thing for them 
 both if she will not marry him." 
 
 Varoni was silent for a few moments. He took 
 one of Kent s battered little note-books, and be 
 gan playing with it as Kent was playing with the 
 pencil. 
 
 All at once he said : 
 
 "Forgive me, Alareec, if I mention something 
 that I mentioned once before. But to me there 
 is a certain change about the Signorina . . . 
 something very subtle, very evasive. . . . Al 
 areec ... do you remember my once asking you 
 to be very careful with that young girl?" 
 
 "I do," said Kent, curtly. 
 
 "Well, then ... I ask it again . . . most 
 earnestly, unless ..." He fixed so shrewd a 
 
 16 241
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 gaze on him this time that Kent feared his color 
 would change. "Unless," continued Varoni, 
 "you are beginning to care for her yourself?" 
 
 Kent jumped up, and went to the open win 
 dow. 
 
 "You are simply a monomaniac, Gigino," said 
 he, with his face toward the lake. 
 
 "Because if that is the case," Varoni went on, 
 with his gentle imperturbability, "I have noth 
 ing more to say . . . except that my every wish 
 for good is with you both. But . . ."he broke 
 off again, and looked at his friend more shrewdly 
 than ever. 
 
 "Why do you not look at me, Alareec?" he 
 asked, leaving his sentence unfinished. 
 
 "Good Lord!" cried Kent, as crossly as a 
 child, "you break in on a man when he s in the 
 middle of the most devilish snarl of work, and 
 then criticise his attitude toward you! I must 
 say, Gigino, you can be jolly trying when you put 
 your mind to it." 
 
 "Do you intend asking her to marry you?" 
 was Varoni s reply to this outburst. 
 
 "My good man," said Kent, as pale now as the 
 other, I have no intention, at present, of asking 
 any woman in the world to marry me ; that you 
 may take my word for." 
 
 "You seem to me to be very unnecessarily ex 
 cited," returned Varoni, with the fly-like per 
 sistency which was so exasperating at times. 
 
 242
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I am excited. I confess to the crime frankly. 
 Perhaps you d be excited occasionally, also, if 
 you were trying to steer the Monna Lisa through 
 a five-act drama without being either inconsistent 
 or monotonous and with interruptions from 
 every quarter," he ended, growling. 
 
 Varoni came over and put both small, well-cut 
 hands on his friend s sulky shoulders. 
 
 "It s no use, Alareec," said he. "I know you 
 too well. You are disturbed far more than by 
 any paper-lady like your Monna Lisa. . . . Now 
 hear me. If you love this young girl and wish 
 to marry her . . . on some future day . . . next 
 year . , . when you will ... all is well between 
 us. But should you, by any carelessness or 
 selfishness whatever, . . . make her suffer ..." 
 (the small hands held Kent firmly) . . . "why 
 then, Alareec, our friendship would break as the 
 friendships of other good friends have broken 
 many a time before now. . . . That is all ... 
 I wished to be quite frank." 
 
 "You have certainly been frank," said Kent, 
 dryly. It was with difficulty that he kept him 
 self from scowling. 
 
 "And now," said Varoni, "I will say good-bye. 
 I am sorry to have irritated you, for, as you know 
 well, I have a great affection for you. But I also 
 know the creative temperament ... I wanted 
 to warn you, and I wanted all to be straight and 
 clear before us. Good-bye." 
 
 243
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Good-bye, Gigino," said Kent, softening, and 
 giving the small hand a tight grip . " You re really 
 the best chap in the world, you know, after all." 
 
 Madame Rupin gave Dione a rather bad quar 
 ter of an hour after the final departure of the 
 Varonis, but, as usual, was glad to escape with 
 a few bitter whinings from her daughter s impas 
 sive dignity. Cecca, also, came to the rescue 
 with a few words as wingedly crafty as those of 
 Odysseus. 
 
 "Madonna mia!" exclaimed she, "are you fret 
 ting because better remains and less good goes ? 
 . . . Have you not yourself told me that the 
 Inglese is a great Scior in his own country, and 
 rich to boot? . . . And do you not know that 
 the Inglesi are not like our Sciori in these matters, 
 but require much time and patience, and a long 
 tether? And as for your grandsons, will they 
 not be better tall and strapping like the Inglese, 
 instead of little and girlish like the other ? Now 
 powder your pretty nose and go sit on the ter 
 race in the good air which always blows wisdom 
 into hot heads, and I will beat you up an egg 
 with some Marsala, for your little stomach must 
 be empty since you have poured forth so many 
 words and groanings." 
 
 In the mean time Kent was fighting, not 
 a good, perhaps, but certainly a bitter fight. 
 
 244
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 He spent harassed nights, and dark, confused 
 days. 
 
 "Tell her . . . tell her . . ." urged one voice. 
 "Wait ..." urged the other. "Why precipi 
 tate matters ? . . . Who knows what an hour or 
 a day may bring forth ? . . . Perhaps to-morrow 
 . . . to-night even, that grim barrier may open 
 before you as she said, like the air. Such 
 things happen. ... In all lives gates of brass 
 have been broken in pieces, and iron bars cut 
 asunder. . . . Does not all come to him who 
 knows how to wait? . . ." 
 
 And he stifled the first voice and listened to 
 the second. But his work lay neglected in a 
 drawer, and it was during this period that he 
 wrote those feverish yet beautiful lyrics "To 
 Dione," which are as the voice of one singing 
 to a strange woman songs of an unforgotten 
 love. 
 
 One morning, however, when he awoke, it was 
 as if he had consulted with a great Master in the 
 night. All seemed clear before him. His will 
 bent to his grasp like a ready bow. 
 
 "To-day," said he, with mind and body strung, 
 "to-day I will tell her . . . and it will lay with 
 her as to what happens after." 
 
 Still in this frame of mind he went to Vareggio 
 to give Dione the usual fencing lesson. 
 
 She met him with a face as radiant as though 
 she had spent her night in the field of stars. 
 
 245
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Did you sec me last night?" she asked, com 
 ing close and smiling up at him. I was with you 
 in, oh! such beautiful places. . . . We spent a 
 hundred years together, and it seemed like a 
 heartbeat. ..." 
 
 "Were you happy?" said Kent, in a low voice. 
 
 "Oh, my most dearest!" 
 
 She laughed her low, stirring laugh. 
 
 " Did you see me ? . . . Did you see me ?" she 
 asked again. 
 
 "I felt you if I did not see you, Dione," said 
 he. "There is not a beat of my blood that does 
 not thrill with you." 
 
 "Ah, . . . but I hoped you had seen me! . . . 
 You were so real ... I touched your hair . . . 
 your eyes. . . . You took me to you. . . . You 
 said . . . Dione . . . you are mine at last. 
 . . . Those reasons have melted like a mist. . . . 
 And all was happy with us. ... The whole 
 world was happy with our happiness." 
 
 Kent stood gazing at her out of a pale face. 
 Then he said, in a voice still lower: 
 
 "Let us take our lesson first, Dione. . . . 
 Afterward I ... have something to tell you." 
 
 "As you please," said she, radiantly. "I hope 
 it will be to confess that you saw me, too !"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 KENT handed her a foil. Yielding to her in 
 sistence, he was going to give her her first 
 lesson in lunging. He had not thought when he 
 began teaching her that she could make such 
 rapid progress as to begin lunging after only 
 eight or nine lessons. But already she could 
 step backward and forward tense on her bent 
 knees, in the correct position, her body well in 
 profile, her left arm and hand curled over her 
 shoulder, her right arm extended forward with 
 elbow slightly bent. 
 
 He was right in thinking her extraordinarily 
 supple, with an enduring elasticity of limb that 
 he ascribed to her mountain walks ; but he did 
 not know how long she had practised stepping 
 backward and forward before her mirror, which 
 allowed her to correct any deflection from the 
 right attitude. 
 
 He really had no objection to make against 
 this first lesson in lunging, which she suddenly 
 urged upon him, except that of having left his 
 padded coat in his room, and this seemed so 
 trivial a reason that he kept it to himself. After 
 
 247
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 all, he could parry a far swifter thrust than she 
 could yet give. 
 
 "Now, then, you try," he said, after he had 
 thrust at an imaginary adversary by way of 
 example. 
 
 Dione obeyed. 
 
 "Brava! Now recover yourself . . . back on 
 your left leg, quick!" 
 
 He watched her, then remarked : 
 
 Your left leg must act as a spring not only to 
 send you forward but to draw you back again. 
 . . . Like this. . . . Do you see? Now try 
 again." 
 
 This time, instead of standing aside, he faced 
 her, foil in hand, ready to parry, and pointing to 
 his left breast with his free hand. 
 
 "Feel the point of your foil . . . feel it as if 
 you had it between your fingers. You must feel 
 it as a painter feels the end of his brush. Then 
 don t fall forward, spring forward from your left 
 leg. Ready? . . . Now!" 
 
 He did not have to parry, for the point of her 
 foil went altogether wide of him. 
 
 "How vexing!" she said, breathing fast. 
 
 "Not at all. You are doing very well. You 
 were much better on your legs this time." 
 
 "Yes, but I missed you by a yard!" 
 
 Never mind. I d rather have you miss me in 
 the right way than touch me in the wrong way. 
 You would only have done it by accident then." 
 
 248
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Without a word she fell into position again, 
 tapped the floor lightly with her right foot to 
 prove to herself and to him that her weight was 
 all on her left leg, then sprang. 
 
 "Better! Much better! . . . Do you see?" he 
 encouraged her, after she had retreated into posi 
 tion, and stood breathing still faster, her face 
 slightly flushed. 
 
 She looked at him with bright and darkened 
 eyes. 
 
 "No . . . it isn t better. . . . Don t treat me 
 like a child that has to be humoured. I am 
 dreadfully clumsy." 
 
 "You are too impatient. I swear you are do 
 ing as well as a man would." 
 
 Again she did not answer. It was not in her 
 nature to make excuses for herself, but she would 
 not be clumsy! She would show him that she 
 did not need his indulgence. 
 
 Once more she got into position, every fibre 
 tense with will, her eyes straight in his and black 
 with rebellion at her own deficiency. 
 
 In him, the attention of the fencing-master 
 gave way for a moment to the admiration of the 
 man. And then . . . did she spring too far to 
 keep her balance ? or did she slip ? or was he off 
 his guard ? . . . The point of her foil caught in 
 his loose collar, bent, then snapped short, the 
 stump tearing through collar and skin over his 
 shoulder; her body followed it, checked only by 
 
 249
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 his from a hard fall. And then she saw that 
 there was blood upon his throat . . . that he 
 was very pale. 
 
 In an instant her foil dropped, clinking. Both 
 her arms were fast about him, her head strained 
 back, her young breast pressed to his all herself 
 pressed against him, as though she would melt 
 into him and so make that flowing blood her 
 blood also that was shed. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, with a great cry. "Oh! . . . 
 I have hurt you! ... I cannot bear it! ... I 
 have hurt you! I have hurt you!" 
 
 And she clutched him as the drowning clutch, 
 and held up her face to his, shuddering through 
 all her frame. 
 
 Kent s brain reeled; the world reeled with it. 
 The past, the future were gulfed in this whirling 
 now. He felt only the woman on his breast 
 the wine of life at his lips, and, stooping his head, 
 he drank and drank. . . . 
 
 When he could speak at all, he said, whis 
 pering : 
 
 " Now you are mine ? . . . Dione . . . are you 
 not mine now?" 
 
 She lay in his arms with her face hidden, but he 
 felt the assenting movements of her head against 
 his breast. 
 
 "You are mine. . . . You are my wife. . . . 
 Say it. . . ." 
 
 "I am all yours. ... I am your wife. . . ." 
 250
 
 "Could priests make you more my wife? . . . 
 Could any words of man ?" 
 
 "No. . . . No. . . ." 
 
 "Dione ..." his voice was only a warm breath 
 in her ear. 
 
 "Yes. . . ." 
 
 "I cannot marry you before men now. But 
 someday. . . . Do you hear me, Dione ?" 
 
 The dark head made that little assenting, thrill 
 ing movement. 
 
 Some day I will marry you in the eyes of the 
 whole world. ... By God, I will! . . . With 
 my own hands I will break the iron bars. ... I 
 can ... I will. ... Do you hear me?" 
 
 Her hand moved on his shoulder, against his 
 throat, answering for her, assuring, talking, as 
 only the hand of the woman who loves can talk 
 without words. 
 
 How long they stayed thus, fast in each other s 
 arms, neither knew. 
 
 At last Dione said, whisperingly : 
 
 "Let us go to-night to Pan s Mountain and 
 swear it upon his altar." 
 
 He caught her still closer. 
 
 "Swear what, Dione? . . . Our real marriage 
 vows?" 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. 
 
 All that afternoon the mareng swept the sky 
 with strange whimsies, as of a pregnant witch. 
 Now high, now low it sped, whirling up great
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 vortices of cloud from behind the Sasso di Ferro, 
 flinging black mist-wreaths against the scudding 
 white, tearing them again with angry teeth. . . . 
 Anon trundling huge saffron balls of cumuli 
 above Luino, only to beat them flat with a green 
 broom of wind. Scattering, gathering, scatter 
 ing again now east, now west, now north, 
 now south, in a sick frenzy of unfocussed 
 force. 
 
 Yes, the witch-wind was abroad in all her 
 might, and the slight gusts of rain were like the 
 spitting of her teased and bewildered cat, tossed 
 with her through the sky. 
 
 Toward eight o clock the fury had spent herself, 
 but the clouds still gathered, sagged lower and 
 lower, gray like ashes, like fur, like metal, like 
 the flesh of the dying, like the eyes of a dead 
 man. . . . 
 
 Kent and Dione rowed to Pan s Mountain un 
 der a low, smothering tent, which on every side 
 closed in about them. 
 
 "Look," said Dione, speaking softly. "Pan is 
 veiling himself. He is putting on his priestly 
 robes. . . ." 
 
 And, glancing over his shoulder, Kent saw, in 
 the eerie light that failed with every instant, a 
 vast cope of mist, descending almost to the 
 mountain s foot. 
 
 He rested on his oars for a moment to watch 
 that stately robing. Th en he said : 
 
 252
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "What shall we do when we get there? . . . 
 What shall we say ?" 
 
 Dione crept forward in the boat, and leaned 
 against his breast. She drew down his head and 
 whispered in his ear: 
 
 "We shall pour the wine into my little silver 
 cup. . . . Then we shall each drink of it. . . . 
 Then each will pour libation to him. . . . And 
 you will say: Evoe, Pan! I take this woman to 
 be my wife. . . . And I will say: Evoe, Pan! 
 I take this man to be my husband. . . ." 
 
 "Dione. . . . Dione. . . ." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Only that. . . . Dione. ... It is all said 
 in that one word. ..." 
 
 It was almost pit mirk when they reached the 
 mountain. Dione took the oars from him, and 
 guided the boat among the sunken crags. Then 
 she got out and made the painter fast, as when 
 she had come before. Kent came and stood 
 beside her. They grasped each other s hands 
 hard, like children in a strange darkness. There 
 was no sound of any kind save that hollow 
 "glucking" of the water in the low caverns to 
 right and left of them. 
 
 "This is a gruesome place ..." said Kent, 
 finally. . . . "Let us get through and be gone 
 from it. . . ." 
 
 He heard the wine pouring into the little cup, 
 but could not see its dark red against the gloom. 
 
 253
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Drink, ..." said Dione s soft voice at his 
 ear. . . . "I have drunk of it already." She 
 held the rim against his mouth, and he drank, 
 feeling a strange shiver as the wine flowed down 
 his throat. 
 
 "Now," said she, "do you make libation." 
 
 "Evoe, Pan!" said Kent, in an unsteady voice, 
 and again that shiver passed over him as he heard 
 the plash of the wine upon the bare rock at his 
 feet. "I take this woman to be my wife. . . ." 
 
 "Evoe, Pan!" the girl said, clearly, and he 
 heard the soft plash again. "I take this man 
 to be my husband. ..." 
 
 Then, as it seemed, they stood waiting, and 
 unconsciously they held their breaths. 
 
 But only an august and darkling silence an 
 swered them. 
 
 As they turned to go, however, a pelt of little 
 stones fell rattling through the shadows, with a 
 noise like laughing. They fell hard and straight. 
 
 "Come! ..." cried Kent, in a strange voice. 
 "Come quickly! . . . Give me your hand! . . . 
 Quick! Quick! ..." 
 
 He half dragged, half lifted her into the boat. 
 
 "Were you hurt? . . . Did any strike you?" 
 he asked, bending low to the oars, and sending 
 the little Am-pias-a-mi like a shell through the 
 livid water. 
 
 A moon-streak through a tear in the smother 
 ing tent showed him Dione s face, very white. 
 
 254
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Ah, I knew it!" he cried, an instant later, 
 leaving the oars and flinging himself on his 
 knees before her. "Dione! . . . You re bleed- 
 ing! . . ." 
 
 "One struck my breast. . . . It does not hurt 
 now," said Dione, in a low voice. 
 
 That tear in the tent of clouds was widening. 
 They saw each other s white faces in the wan 
 gleam, like the faces of two drowned people 
 through the sickly underlight of water. 
 
 "It does not hurt now . . . truly," said 
 Dione again. 
 
 She showed him a little cut on the white lift 
 of her breast just at the edge of her gown, from 
 which some drops of blood were oozing. 
 
 "Poor, lovely breast," said Kent, and, bend 
 ing, stanched it with his lips. 
 
 "See . . ." he whispered, lift ing his head. "I 
 am sealed to you. . . . See your blood upon my 
 lips." 
 
 Dione trembled, but kept her eyes in his. 
 
 When they reached the other shore again and 
 were once more among the mountain wildnesses, 
 he stopped suddenly and turned to her. 
 
 "Are you really all mine ... at last?" he 
 said, in a pent and shaken voice. 
 
 Dione opened wide her arms with a noble 
 gesture. 
 
 "Take me ... I am yours, not mine," she 
 said. 
 
 255
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 DURING the middle of September Kent was 
 called to England by the illness of his 
 mother. This illness ended unexpectedly in her 
 death, and he did not return to Ceredo until the 
 1 6th of January. 
 
 Madame Rupin had set up a dreary wailing 
 when he left. 
 
 "There, . . . stupid one! . . ." she had cried 
 to Dione, "there goes the other of two miraculous 
 chances that the Virgin sent you! . . . One 
 would think that you were waiting for the little 
 Crown Prince to grow up that you might be 
 Queen of Italy. . . . The saints pity me! . . . 
 I have brought an Amazon into the world. . . ." 
 
 "Do not be distressed, mamma," the girl had 
 replied, with unusual softness. "I think that, 
 when he returns, the Signor Kent will ask you to 
 allow him to marry me." 
 
 "When he returns! . . . When he returns! 
 God give me patience! Yes . . . when he re 
 turns all will be well indeed!" 
 
 "Surely," here Cecca had put in, "you waste 
 good breath on poor words, Sciora mia. . . . 
 
 256
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Does a man write every day, and sometimes 
 twice a day, to one whom he does not wish to 
 see again? . . . Like the swallows to the south, 
 he will be heading straight for our lake ere the 
 winter sets in." 
 
 And Dione, listening, had smiled and said: 
 
 "Yes, surely he will return before long. In 
 his last letter he tells me so. ... I pray you not 
 to worry, mamma." 
 
 She smiled very often for her in these days; 
 even in her light, half-conscious sleep she smiled, 
 and though this smile of hers was all unlike the 
 Monna Lisa s, it was even more subtle. 
 
 The day on which Kent came back was cold 
 and fiercely bright, with the Maggiore hammering 
 the lake to a floor of rough blue steel. He caught 
 his breath as he looked about him. It was like 
 seeing a beautiful woman after a lapse of twenty 
 years ... so changed was the whole scene, and 
 yet so unmistakably the same. Pan s Mountain 
 was now the real Stone of Iron, with blue-black 
 metallic ribs jutting against a sky of piercing 
 azure. The hazel bushes had all shed their leaves. 
 Above Ghiffa the chestnuts and birches and pop 
 lars were all naked. Only the oaks thrust forth 
 a banner of withered russet here and there, while 
 the dark pines and cypresses stared from among 
 the tangle of stripped branches, as with the 
 haughty gloom of beings by whom the seasons 
 pass unheeded. 
 
 17 257
 
 He went straight to his lodgings, and found 
 there, as he had expected, a note from Dione 
 awaiting him. 
 
 He did not stop to take off his heavy overcoat, 
 but tore the letter open, and read it standing. 
 
 "Come, thou more than my heart s blood," it 
 said. "Come to me in the little pavilion where 
 my foot slipped that day. . . . Dost thou re 
 member? Ah, thou dost well remember! . . . 
 For was not that the morning of the first day for 
 us? The day on which we first began to live 
 indeed. The day on which we married each 
 other before the altar of Pan. . . . Come quick ! 
 . . . quick! for I have beautiful things to tell 
 thee which may not wait. ..." 
 
 Kent kissed the paper like a boy hungry with 
 first love. In ten minutes he was at the door of 
 the pavilion. 
 
 Dione opened it herself. Behind her was the 
 glow of a great wood fire which she had kindled 
 on the hearth. She looked very tall and ex 
 traordinarily alive, as though lit by some inner 
 flame brighter than the fire, and, somehow, while 
 she was more herself than ever, yet, like the land 
 scape, she had changed. It was not winter, 
 though, that had touched her she was like a 
 garden of red roses in the heart of June. 
 
 They clung together as though Death, relent 
 ing, had just given them back to each other. 
 
 "Dione! . . . Dione! . . . Dione! . . ." was all 
 258
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 that Kent could say, as on many another meet 
 ing, while for Dione, her quick hands spoke, 
 flashing about him, like birds about their 
 nest, over his hair, his eyes, his throat, his 
 lips. 
 
 "My love . . . my wife, . . ."he stammered. 
 "My wife .... my own. ..." 
 
 Then after a throbbing half hour of broken 
 words and tremulous caresses, Dione laid her arm 
 about his neck, and pressed down her face above 
 his heart. 
 
 "Alaric," said she, "you have not asked me 
 to tell you those beautiful things. ..." 
 
 "Oh, my most beautiful," said Kent, dizzy 
 with the fulness of love and life. "Are not all 
 the things that you tell me only less beautiful 
 than you arc?" 
 
 "But this is more beautiful than I am. ..." 
 
 He laughed softly against her fragrant hair. 
 
 "With permission," said he, "I must beg 
 leave to doubt it." 
 
 She put up one hand and covered his laughing 
 lips. 
 
 "You must not laugh," she said; "this is to be 
 heard in silence . . . with a prayer." 
 
 "Tell me, then," he answered. "I shall be 
 praying in my heart the while that we may never 
 die." 
 
 Then Dione, holding his hand against her 
 heart, and whispering, said: 
 
 259
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Alaric, there is to be given us ... a little 
 son." 
 
 When, after some seconds, he had not an 
 swered her, she turned in his arms and looked up 
 into his face. It was the face of a man who had 
 died in pain. 
 
 "Alaric! . . . Alaric! ..." screamed Dione, 
 and she shook him to and fro in her terror. Then 
 she screamed again as he tilted stiffly against 
 her. For a moment he had lost all consciousness. 
 . . . She wrapped him about with her arms as a 
 mother wraps a hurt child. . . . She kissed him 
 upon the mouth . . . desperately, with jealous 
 fierceness, as though she would give him her very 
 life -breath to breathe with. . . . She did all 
 the wild, frantic, hindering things that ignorant 
 people do to one in a swoon. And when at last 
 he drew a catching breath and his eyelids flick 
 ered, for the first time in her life for she had not 
 wept when her father died, though she loved him 
 she burst into such an anguish of tears as Eve 
 might have shed when she stumbled over the 
 body of Abel. 
 
 Little by little Kent came to himself again, but 
 that frozen look as of a mask never left his face. 
 He stared before him, not moving, not speak 
 ing, heedless of her racking sobs, as she leaned 
 against him with her arms flung out across his 
 knees. 
 
 At last he managed to utter "Dione! . . ." 
 260
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, gathering him all against her 
 breast. "I thought that you were dead! ... I 
 thought that you were dead!" 
 
 "Oh, that I could die!" groaned the man. 
 
 Then he sat up and put her from him. 
 
 "Don t touch me, . . . Dione," he said, in a 
 thick, hoarse voice, "until ..." 
 
 He broke off, and hid his face upon his clenched 
 fists. 
 
 "Tell me! ... tell me! . . ." urged the girl. 
 "Something will snap in my heart if I am not 
 told quickly!" 
 
 "O God! . . ." said Kent. "O God, God, 
 God! . . ." 
 
 "Tell me! . . ." urged Dione, fiercely. "Tell 
 me! ... tell me! . . ." 
 
 She tried to drag up his face from his hands, so 
 that she might look at it. But he resisted. 
 
 "Tell me! ..." she said again. "If you are 
 going to kill me, . . . why, kill me quickly." 
 
 "Dione! ..." said Kent, with the effort of one 
 dying to utter a few vital words. "Dione, . . . 
 will you curse me ? . . . Will you ? . . . I can t 
 do it!" he cried, and broke off again. 
 
 The girl, rigid and trembling now from head 
 to foot, said : 
 
 "You are being very cruel to me. ..." 
 
 "Then," said Kent, with a sort of desperate 
 rage in his spent voice "then I will be crueler 
 still. ... I cannot marry you before the world 
 
 261
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 even now . . . after . . . what . . . you have 
 told me, because . . ."he set his teeth so hard 
 together that she heard their grating . . . "be 
 cause ... I ... am married . . . already . . ." 
 
 There fell utter silence between them. Like a 
 corpse it fell heavily and lay between them. 
 When at last, unable to bear the strain of that 
 dreadful hush any longer, Kent lifted his head 
 and looked at her, he would scarcely have known 
 her. Her eyes had grown light in color like 
 ashes. Her mouth was like a white scar on her 
 face. She looked witless, and there was a horror 
 in her empty stare as of some bewitched creature 
 whose lover s lips had turned to snakes beneath 
 her kiss. 
 
 Kent seized her in his arms, called her by 
 name, prayed to her as though she had been God. 
 She was like a shape of stone. Then all the man 
 in him went to water. He dropped down his 
 head upon her knees and his w r eeping shook her 
 body. 
 
 "God forgive me! . . . God forgive me! ..." 
 he kept saying, when he could speak. 
 
 "God will not forgive you," said a curious, 
 light voice above his head. 
 
 He looked up in terror. The sight of her face 
 terrified him still more. She was gazing straight 
 down at him now. 
 
 "For Christ s sake, Dione, ... do not look 
 at me in that horrible way! ..." 
 
 262
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I must look at you ... I never saw you 
 before. ..." 
 
 "Dione! . . . Your eyes kill! . . ." 
 
 "No, ... or you would be dead. . . ." 
 
 "Is it to me . . . me . . . that you speak, 
 . . . Dione?" 
 
 "I would kill you if I could ... I do not 
 know how." 
 
 He felt his blood chilling. Then he cried out 
 to her : 
 
 Dione ! . . . Where are you ? . . . Come back ! 
 .... Come back! . . ." 
 
 Diana knew, said she. She set his hounds 
 on Act eon at the first. ..." 
 
 "But she did not love him! . . . Dione, Dione! 
 . . . Are you going mad . . . here . . . before 
 my eyes? . . . Wake! . . . Wake! . . ." 
 
 "And I do not love you, either." 
 
 Kent struggled to his feet and groped his way 
 to the window. The short winter day was draw 
 ing to its close. A dull glow as of red-hot iron, 
 cooling, lit the sky above Baveno. The garden 
 lay in dark coils of vines and the matted white 
 of its dead grasses. Behind him, in the dead- 
 still room, a log broke into flame, and the light 
 from it rippled over the pane through which he 
 was gazing. Then he went back to her. He 
 took her rigid hands in his and held them firmly. 
 
 "Listen, Dione, . . ." he said, in a more natural 
 voice, "I have been a madman, but I am not all 
 
 263
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 the scoundrel you think me. . . . My life is yours 
 and . . . and our child s. . . . My name shall be 
 yours the instant I am free. . . . No shame nor 
 harm shall come to you. ... I will take you far, 
 far from here. . . . Every pulse of my heart 
 . . . every thought of my brain . . . every 
 atom of me, soul and body, shall be yours al 
 ways ... as it has been from the first moment 
 that I loved you. . . . Are you listening? . . . 
 Do you understand me?" 
 
 Her hard, deathly eyes never left his face. 
 When he paused, she said: 
 
 "And my son. . . . What of my son? . . ." 
 
 "Will he not be my son, too? ... Is he not 
 mixed of our love? . . . Have I no claim in 
 him?" 
 
 "Will you call him Bastard . . . when you 
 want him to come to you to be loved ?" 
 
 "Dione! . . ." 
 
 "Will you say Love me, little bastard, . . . 
 for I gave thee that good name ?" 
 
 "God in heaven! . . . She is really mad! ..." 
 He stared at her, stricken. 
 
 "... And when he grows to be a man . . . 
 and comes to you with the woman he loves for 
 ... for your blessing ..." She laughed. ". . . . 
 Will you say to her: My blessing is that men 
 will call you the Lady Bastard. . . . Will you 
 say that to her?" 
 
 That numbness which comes when the height 
 264
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 of pain or joy is reached began to steal over 
 Kent. 
 
 "Perhaps I had better go now," he said, 
 heavily. "When you have slept . . . to-mor 
 row ... I will come again, and ..." 
 
 "When I have slept! . . ." she echoed him, 
 and her light eyes had a dreadful sneer in them. 
 "I will not sleep," she said, "until you have had 
 your punishment. ..." 
 
 Kent shuddered. 
 
 "I will do whatever you wish," he said, with 
 painful humility. "But you are very cruel in 
 your turn, Dione. . . . You have not even let 
 me tell you my sordid story. ..." 
 
 "I am not in the mood for fireside tales to 
 night," said Dione. 
 
 "I was so young . . . only a lad, . . ." he 
 faltered. "It was when I was at college. . . . 
 She . . ." 
 
 "Silence!" said Dione. "I have nothing to do 
 with any one in all the world but you and me." 
 
 "... Dione! . . . Where are you? . . . Who 
 is this in your place?" he called out again, in 
 desperate anguish. "You speak of my punish 
 ment. . . . God did not punish Cain as you are 
 punishing me. ..." 
 
 "Cain only murdered his brother. . . . You 
 have killed your first-born before he has drawn 
 breath. . . . Better be Cain even than . . . 
 bastard." 
 
 265
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Did you ever love me, . . . Dione?" 
 
 "No ... I never loved you, ... for I never 
 saw you until to-day." 
 
 Kent gave the piteous sigh of a man who is 
 coming to himself after prolonged torture. 
 
 "Must I ... go ... now? . . ." 
 
 "Go . . . but I will see you again. . . ." 
 
 "When? . . ." he faltered. 
 
 "When the right time comes." 
 
 "And ... I must go ... like this?" 
 
 "Go as you can and may," she said. 
 
 "Then . . . good-night, Dione." 
 
 "There is no night that is good . . . but one 
 may be made good." 
 
 He felt his way out, blindly. In the door he 
 turned. 
 
 She made no sign. He passed on into the clear 
 night. Above Pan s Mountain the moon just 
 showed her rim. It was coral-red, as though, 
 stealing up from Endymion s cave, she blushed 
 for love.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 ALL that night Dione sat at her window and 
 gazed at the Stone of Iron. Masciett lay 
 at her feet and kept them warm, though she 
 did not know it. She was not conscious of her 
 body. All her life seemed to have drawn up 
 ward into her head. It seemed to her that the 
 whole world was beating in that conscious round, 
 and that she knew things and yet was apart from 
 them. . . . She felt light as a feather ... as a 
 feather torn from the breast of a hawk in some 
 mid-air fray . . . floating . . . floating. Though 
 there be blood upon it, the feather cannot feel it. 
 ... So she bled, and knew it, but did not feel it. 
 And all during the long night the refrain of the 
 old folk-song went singing, in her own voice, 
 through her brain: 
 
 " The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire." 
 
 There were ashes, too, in her brain, but these 
 were red with fire. . . . She touched her fore 
 head lightly . . .then looked at her hand in 
 the moonlight. ... It should have been scarred 
 with that hot fire in her head. 
 
 267
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Then as she gazed down at it, thinking this, 
 she said to herself: 
 
 "That is a foolish thought. . . . Thus people 
 go mad ... I will not go mad, for I have things 
 that I must do with reason and calmness. . . . 
 There is no real fire in my head. ..." 
 
 She touched it again with her cold hand. 
 
 "Yet how it burns! ..." she said. 
 
 Then she bent her eyes again on the Stone of 
 Iron. 
 
 "I have seen you naked, Pan," she said aloud. 
 
 She gazed and gazed, then she said again: 
 
 "Those of old who saw you so ... died. 
 But I shall not die . . . not yet." 
 
 The old folk-songs that her father had taught 
 her when a child kept thronging back upon her. 
 One came now, more persistently than the song 
 of the "Fierce Maiden" alternated with it, beat 
 ing itself out in scraps and reiterations against 
 her strained mind : 
 
 Why are thy long black tresses always dripping, O maiden? 
 My hair is wet with my tears and the water that drowned 
 my lover. 
 
 In anger they parted. The heavens also were wrathful. 
 Dark was the lake, but darker their hearts within them. 
 The lover went to his fishing: the maid to her spinning. 
 Drowned in the storm was he. Her reason went with him. 
 
 Now, folks say, she wanders by night to meet him. 
 Under the waves, hand in hand, all the long night-tide 
 
 268
 
 They fare together (thus say the old folks}. 
 
 The fishes go through their hair and against their pale 
 
 faces. 
 
 Cold as that touch are the kisses they give each other. 
 (The old folks tell it.} 
 
 Why are thy long black tresses always dripping, O 
 
 maiden ? 
 My hair is wet with my tears and the water that drowned 
 
 my lover. 
 
 The next day she wrote a few words to Kent 
 and sent them by Cecca. 
 
 "I will see you again," she wrote, "but do not 
 come until I send for you. I must think much. 
 When I send for you I shall be very quiet. But 
 do not come until I send for you." 
 
 She was always so silent and quietly aloof in 
 her own home that her mother noticed no change 
 in her. Her extreme pallor seemed to Madame 
 Rupin the same that had always annoyed her. 
 But Cecca saw Cecca, the born mother, the only 
 mother that the girl had ever known. It was re 
 vealed to the old nurse with every sharp, side 
 glance which she took that there was something 
 vitally wrong with her treasure. She dare not 
 ask any questions. She knew Dione too well. 
 She loved her too idolatrously to risk the grave, 
 haughty look that she knew would fall upon her 
 in that case. Heavy - hearted and fearful she 
 went about her work, and many were the incan 
 tations against evil that she said, and many the 
 
 269
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 potent herbs that she slipped into the girl s food. 
 But Dione did not eat. That seemed to Cecca 
 the most terrible sign of all. 
 
 As for Kent, he passed those days in spaces of 
 which men never speak do they return to the 
 upper light. Even to recall them for an instant 
 is to tempt God. "If I go down into hell Thou 
 art there also, " he thought, in agony. "But 
 this is the cellar of hell on which I lie broken. 
 . . . God does not descend so low. ..." 
 
 On the fourth day after his arrival Cecca came 
 with another note from Dione. She wrote: 
 
 "Come to-night at midnight. I will be wait 
 ing in the pavilion. Dress warmly. I cannot 
 light a fire, and it will be very cold. But we can 
 see each other by the moonlight." 
 
 Kent shuddered. He had not been able to re 
 call Dione s face since he left her, except with 
 that terrible look upon it which made her seem 
 to him a strange woman. 
 
 "I will come," was all that he wrote back. 
 
 On the afternoon of that same day Varoni 
 came to Pallanza for a short visit. He went first 
 to the Rupins, intending to see Kent as he re 
 turned. Like Cecca, he looked at Dione with 
 that search-light of love which pierces all masks, 
 and knew that she was very ill. He stayed 
 with her only a short while. Then he found 
 Cecca. 
 
 "I am alarmed about your young Signorina," 
 270
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 said he. "I think that she is seriously ill. Has 
 a doctor been consulted?" 
 
 "Oh, Madonna mial . . . Madonna miaf" 
 cried the old woman, lifting up her hands. 
 "What is a poor, helpless old creature like me to 
 do, Signore ? . . . The child says that she is not 
 ill and goes into a frozen rage at the mere men 
 tion. The mamma says that she is sulking. But 
 if you, too, see it, Signore . . . Madonna have 
 pity!" 
 
 " I do , indeed , see it , " said Varoni . "But what , 
 then, do you think this illness to be, Cecca?" 
 
 Suddenly, to his great distress, the old nurse 
 flung her apron over her head and burst into a 
 passion of weeping that harsh, racked sobbing 
 of the aged which is like the sight of a piteous 
 deformity. As suddenly as she had broken 
 down, however, she recovered herself, begged 
 humbly to be pardoned. 
 
 "The Signore must indeed excuse me. . . .It 
 is not only because my Signorina is ill that I for 
 got myself . . . but I have had bad news from 
 my son in America this morning. My poor son 
 . . . he, too, is very ill." 
 
 With the clairvoyance of love, Varoni in 
 stantly knew that she was lying. Why, he could 
 not think. Then, all at once, he seized her arm. 
 Even his lips were white. 
 
 "Cecca . . ." he said, hoarsely, and said no 
 more. 
 
 271
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Cecca began moving feverishly about the 
 kitchen. 
 
 "Doubtless," said she, in a false note, "the 
 Signore and I ... a poor old cretina of a woman 
 . . . yes, doubtless we exaggerate. ... A little 
 tonic is doubtless all that she needs. The Sig 
 nore must not take things too seriously. . . . 
 The Signore must not regard the nonsense of an 
 old fool like me. The Signore ..." 
 
 But Varoni had left the room. 
 
 His quick brain of the Latin had jumped to 
 conclusions which even Cecca had not as yet 
 dared to formulate precisely. He went and 
 stood alone behind the shelter of the old box- 
 trees in the garden, and rage and horror and 
 anguish tore him as the evil spirits of old tore 
 him who dwelt among the tombs. He remained 
 there half an hour. Then he turned with a gest 
 ure full of force and decision, and went back to 
 the house. 
 
 "Ask your Signorina if she will see me again 
 for a few moments," he said, quietly, to Cecca. 
 "I had forgotten something that I wish very 
 much to say to her." 
 
 Dione came down at once to the little salotto 
 to see him. Her eyes were still that light color of 
 ashes, but her mouth was now like a fresh wound 
 in her white face, so unnaturally vivid was it. 
 
 Varoni placed a chair for her, and remained 
 standing in front of her. 
 
 272
 
 "If you please," said Dione, gently, "do not 
 keep me long. To-day I am rather tired." 
 
 "I will not keep you long, Signorina," said he. 
 "What I have to say will take only a little time. 
 First, I must ask your indulgence, however, and 
 your permission to open a subject which I had 
 not meant to mention so soon again." 
 
 "You may speak as you wish, Signore," said 
 Dione. 
 
 "Then, Signorina, what I have to say is this. 
 There come times to all of us, men and women, 
 Signorina, when a true friend . . ."he choked 
 suddenly over these words, and his face became 
 livid; then he recovered himself, and went on 
 with his usual quiet precision: "... when a true 
 friend, Signorina, is the best gift that God can 
 send. This true friend I am to you. Do you 
 believe me when I say that I am your true 
 friend?" 
 
 "Yes," said Dione, looking strangely at him. 
 
 "Then, Signorina, you will not be offended at 
 what I am about to say to you. ... It is this. 
 Love between men and women is a very beauti 
 ful and wonderful thing, and it is well to marry 
 for love. . . . But there come times . . . there 
 come occasions when a husband who is a true 
 friend can be more to a woman than father or 
 mother or any other friend, no matter how de 
 voted. . . . There come times Signorina, I am 
 asking you to let me be to you that husband who 
 18 273
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 is the true friend. ... I am not asking for love 
 . . . only that you should trust me enough to 
 become my wife." 
 
 Then Dione knew that he knew, and yet that 
 he was asking her to be his wife. 
 
 She rose to her feet and stood before him, 
 looking straight into his eyes. 
 
 "Signore," said she, with a solemn quaintness, 
 "it seems that I have entertained an angel un 
 awares. You are a good and a great man. But 
 I shall never marry. ... I thank you. ... I 
 hope that you may find happiness." 
 
 Varoni lifted her loose sleeve, kissed it, and 
 went away without another word. 
 
 When he opened Kent s door without knock 
 ing he found him seated beside the table with his 
 head buried in his arms. Kent started to his 
 feet with an exclamation of anger, and the two 
 men stood looking at each other. 
 
 "I have come from the Rupins ..." said 
 Varoni, slowly. 
 
 It was scarcely possible for Kent to look 
 ghastlier, but his eyes quivered as before a 
 threatened blow, though he did not lower them. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "Will you swear to me," went on Varoni, still 
 more slowly, "on your honour ... on your 
 mother s honour, that you have done no wrong 
 to that young girl?" 
 
 274
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Kent set his jaw. There was a scarcely per 
 ceptible pause. "I will swear it," he said, 
 thickly. 
 
 "Then you are a coward and swear to a lie!" 
 said Varoni. 
 
 Kent sprang toward him. 
 
 "Wait! . . ." said Varoni. " You are a spirit 
 ual coward, but not a physical coward. . . . 
 Either you marry the Signorina Rupin imme 
 diately, or you fight with me." 
 
 Kent stood breathing sharply through his nos 
 trils like a man who is taking ether. Then he 
 said: 
 
 "You rush in, man . . . you rush in . . ." 
 
 "Will you marry her?" 
 
 "You fool!" cried Kent, his face dreadfully dis 
 torted. "Do you think I don t want to marry 
 her? ... Oh, you fool! . . . But I cannot. . . . 
 I am married already." 
 
 They stood breathing hard, like two runners 
 who have just raced with death. After a mo 
 ment Varoni said : 
 
 "Then you will fight with me, and I shall kill 
 you." 
 
 "As you like," said Kent, and he laughed. 
 
 Varoni left the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE midnight was bitter cold. From the 
 black purple of the sky the stars shot down 
 stalactites of frozen light. A thick fell of snow 
 wrapped the Sasso di Ferro. Underfoot there 
 was a glare of ice. 
 
 Kent knocked softly at the door of the pavil 
 ion. As before, Dione opened it herself. She 
 stood at the end of an oblong of chill moonlight 
 cast by the opposite window. A long, dark 
 cloak wrapped her from head to foot. 
 
 "Are you very cold?" she asked, when he had 
 entered. 
 
 And he answered: 
 
 "Yes, Dione. ... I am cold in body and 
 soul." 
 
 "I am not cold," said she, but the hand that he 
 ventured to take was like ice. It lay passive in 
 his. She herself seemed all passive. They stood 
 together a few moments in silence, and Kent 
 chafed the icy hand. 
 
 After a while he said: 
 
 "What have you to tell me, Dione?" 
 
 "Not very much," she answered. Her voice 
 276
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 was passive also. "Perhaps," she added, a 
 second later, "you will laugh at me?" 
 
 "ODione! . . ." 
 
 "You will please to excuse me. You see, I do 
 not know any longer the things at which you 
 will laugh and the things at which you will not 
 laugh." 
 
 "Dione! . . ."he groaned again. 
 
 "I hope, however, that you will not laugh at 
 this," she continued, with the same passivity, 
 "because I have set my heart on it." 
 
 It seemed to him that the look she gave him 
 in the moonlight had a sort of shiftiness in it, 
 utterly unlike any look that he had ever seen in 
 her before. 
 
 "I could not laugh at anything that you might 
 say to me, Dione," he said, brokenly. 
 
 "You cannot tell beforehand." 
 
 "Yes . . . yes, I can tell!" he cried, with an 
 almost angry passion. "Say that I am a scoun 
 drel, . . . but I am a scoundrel who loves you. 
 You cannot doubt that I love you! . . . You 
 cannot doubt that, Dione!" 
 
 "Why, I doubt God," said she, and smiled. 
 
 Kent stood wordless. 
 
 "Will you tell me now?" he asked, presently, 
 in a dead voice. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "Sit here." 
 
 He sat facing her on the little rustic bench 
 where he used to rest in the pauses of their 
 
 277
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 fencing lessons. The moonlight struck along the 
 foils which still hung crossed on the opposite 
 wall. 
 
 She kept her face out of the direct rays, but the 
 light was so brilliant and permeating that he 
 could see her distinctly. He thought again that 
 she looked at him craftily ... all unlike the 
 Dione that he had once known or had thought 
 that he knew so well. And it occurred to him for 
 the first time that she might be really ill. 
 
 "Are you well wrapped up ? ... Is it not too 
 cold for you here ?" he asked, anxiously. 
 
 "No. ... It could not be too cold for me," 
 answered she, and she put up one hand to her 
 forehead. 
 
 "Are you well? . . . Do you feel quite well?" 
 persisted Kent, his heart racked. 
 
 "Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Quite well enough," 
 she said, with a sort of impatience, then caught 
 herself quickly . . . smiled in that stiff way 
 which was so painful to him, and which made her 
 unsharing eyes stare hardly. "Please to lis 
 ten . . ." she said, speaking slowly. "Please 
 not to interrupt me." 
 
 "No ... I will not interrupt you, Dione." 
 
 "Very well, then." (How the customary 
 little phrase which she had so often used to him 
 in other days cut to his soul s marrow!) 
 
 He drew a long, catching breath, but she went 
 on, not heeding him. 
 
 278
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Very well, then," she said again. "This it 
 is. I have been thinking very much . . . very 
 hard. ..." She knotted her black brows and 
 looked past him. "Very hard, indeed. ... I 
 have remembered all that you said when you 
 were here the other day. ... I have said it over 
 and over to myself until I know it like . . . like 
 a poem. Yes . . . like a poem. ..." 
 
 Kent shivered. 
 
 "And this is what I say to you in return." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then continued, in 
 the voice of one saying something by rote : 
 
 "If you will come with me to Pan s Mountain 
 to-night and swear to marry me when you are 
 free ... I will . . . accept it." 
 
 He felt that she purposely did not say believe 
 it." 
 
 "You know that I will do it, Dione." 
 
 "I could not know what you would do." 
 
 He kept a miserable silence. 
 
 "You will go, then?" she asked, after a mo 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes, Dione. I have said so already." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Now." 
 
 "Come, then," she said, and stood up. 
 
 "Have you the wine ?" he asked, looking about 
 him. 
 
 "No, . . . we do not need wine. We will not 
 make libation. You have only to stand where
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 I show you and swear there what you said 
 to me." 
 
 "Shall we go, then?" 
 
 "Yes, ... let us go." 
 
 They went together down the mountain-side, 
 often slipping on the ice-sheeted stones. She 
 let him hold her up without remonstrance, but 
 never reached to him for support. It seemed to 
 Kent a long, long way to the shore. Once he 
 stopped and cried out to her, in an anguish of 
 appeal : 
 
 "Dione! . . . Dione! . . . come to me once 
 in the old way! . . . Kiss me once . . . once 
 only, for, indeed, I think my heart is broken 
 within me!" 
 
 She stopped also, and stood looking at him 
 curiously. 
 
 "I know, ..." she said, when he had finished. 
 "One feels the two edges grating together, does 
 not one ? . . . I always thought that hearts were 
 soft before . . . did not you?" 
 
 He gazed at her in alarm. 
 
 "Oh, you are ill!" he said. 
 
 She looked scared for a moment, then a sort of 
 sly, wheedling look crept over her face. She 
 sidled up to him. 
 
 "You may kiss me," she said. 
 
 Kent sickened. The night went black before 
 him for a moment, then he took her in his arms. 
 As the supple figure melted against his he bent 
 
 280
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 in a sort of wounded fury of love and pressed 
 down his lips on hers. But it was like kissing 
 ashes. Her parched mouth was like a cinder 
 burned out. His blood returned on itself in thick 
 waves. He staggered, and for an instant she 
 held him up with a strong grasp. 
 
 "Let us go on," he said at last, hoarsely. 
 
 When they reached the shore Dione went her 
 self to fetch her boat from the buoy. 
 
 "I wish to get it, ... and I wish to row there 
 ... to the mountain. It will keep me from 
 being cold." 
 
 And again there was that crafty expression in 
 her eyes. They rowed as they had walked in 
 silence. Kent did not attempt to take the oars 
 from her, because he thought, in truth, that the 
 exercise was better for her during the long cross 
 ing in such cold. 
 
 They touched the liquid, black shadow, en 
 tered it. Before long they were among the 
 gnarls of ice-sheathed rock at the Sasso s base. 
 
 She looked up along the mountain as she rowed, 
 and now Kent recalled how once he had com 
 pared her in his thought to a white hawk, so keen 
 and shrewd was her gaze. All her face seemed 
 pinched with it. She rowed slowly beside the 
 grim base . . . paused . . . rowed on ... paused 
 again. 
 
 "You have passed the place where we stopped 
 before," he said, gently. 
 
 281
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "I know ... I know ..." she said, and her 
 voice sounded a little breathless. 
 
 "Won t you let me take the oars now for a 
 little? ... It seems to me that you are tired." 
 
 "No. . . . No. ... I am not tired. . . . Where 
 is it? Where is it? ... Ah! ..." 
 
 She trailed one oar in the water, bringing the 
 boat about. Its bow went with a crunching 
 sound among the icy pebbles. 
 
 "But, Dione, . . ." said Kent, anxiously, "this 
 is such a steep place. . . . We shall have to 
 climb to that ledge there. ... It seems to me 
 rather dangerous. ..." 
 
 "No! . . . No! . . ." insisted she, still with 
 that breathless note in her voice. "It is just the 
 place! . . . See, ... I am out! . . . Now do 
 you come too!" 
 
 He got out beside her. She had made the 
 painter fast. She lifted herself and looked all 
 about her, and then up. 
 
 "That is the place! ..." she said, and 
 pointed. 
 
 His eyes followed her directing hand. A sort 
 of rough, natural stairway led to a ledge of rock 
 just above them. This ledge was about three 
 feet in width, and jutted from the sheer cliff. 
 Below were the humped backs of sunken rocks 
 and the unplumbed depths. 
 
 "But, Dione, ... I assure you . . , it is dan 
 gerous," he said again.
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "No, ..." she said, feverishly, and a sort of 
 angry gleam came into her uplifted eyes. "No. 
 ... It is just the place. ... It is just the place. 
 ... Go first. ... I will follow you." 
 
 "Very well," said Kent, fearing to excite her, 
 for he no\v realized that she was very ill indeed. 
 
 He mounted the little stairway, and went out 
 upon the ledge. 
 
 "Be very careful how you follow me!" he 
 called back to her. "It is so narrow here that 
 I am afraid to turn to help you. ..." 
 
 She did not answer him. He heard that she 
 was panting as she clambered up, and he longed 
 to help her, but the foothold was too precarious. 
 He even took a cautious step or two backward 
 that she might not have room to advance far 
 along that perilous shelf. And he looked up at 
 the solemn night with its hosts of armored stars 
 wheeling in gigantic silence to their duty, and 
 felt that he had missed his way, and become less 
 than star, less than man ... a wandering atom 
 ... a pinch of poisonous dust. . . . These bit 
 ter thoughts surged through him, then suddenly 
 thought was done for him. A strong force 
 pressed violently against him from the back. 
 . . . He stumbled . . . recovered a little . . . 
 fell forward through the bleak air. . . . His head 
 struck against one of the half-submerged rocks. 
 He sank like a plummet, without a cry . . . 
 without a struggle. 
 
 283
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Dione stood, bent far forward, gazing down. 
 Her face was empty of all expression. She stood 
 thus for several seconds, but there was no stir or 
 sound of any sort save the low "glucking" of the 
 dark water in the caverns just below her. 
 
 Presently she lifted her head, and, setting both 
 hands against her breast, drew a long, painful 
 breath. 
 
 "It is over ..." she said. 
 
 She went down the little stairway, untied the 
 boat, stepped into it. She stood there for an 
 other moment, and looked up at the huge mass, 
 all shagged with snow, that rose above her. 
 
 "Pan, . . ." she said, "... I have given him 
 back to you. ..." 
 
 Then she took up the oars and rowed steadily 
 and swiftly back to the other shore. When she 
 rose to lift out the cushions something fell tink 
 ling at her feet. She stooped and raised it. It 
 was the little silver pencil that she knew so well. 
 She looked at it curiously for a moment, then 
 tossed it out into the lake. It made a white 
 streak in the moonlight, then vanished. 
 
 Cecca was not asleep, though it was nearly four 
 o clock, for Masciett kept whining and scratching 
 at her door. She got up at last, lighted a candle, 
 and let him in. No sooner was he across the 
 threshold than he ran questing about the room, 
 sniffing at bed and chairs and tables. ... He 
 
 284
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 was hunting his mistress, who had locked him 
 into the house, but that Cecca could not know. 
 
 "Santa Maria! . . . The beast acts as though 
 he were bewitched," thought she, and "made 
 horns" against him, and crossed herself many 
 times. 
 
 "Sta quiet! . . . Sta quiti!" (Be still! . . . 
 Be still!) she called to him. But he circled and 
 circled, and at last sat on his haunches before her 
 and lifted up his muzzle with his wild, wolf 
 tremolo. 
 
 "Madonna save and protect us all!" exclaimed 
 Cecca, really frightened. 
 
 Suddenly the dog stiffened . . . cocked his 
 head, then flung himself furiously against the 
 closed door, whining and slavering with ex 
 citement. 
 
 Cecca stood frozen. Then she heard Dione s 
 voice saying: 
 
 "Let me in! ... I am cold! . . . Let me in! 
 ... I am cold!" 
 
 Cecca rushed to the door. She flung it open, 
 and saw Dione standing on the threshold fully 
 dressed, a long cloak shrouding her, and her face 
 like a dead face. 
 
 "O Signer! O Madonna! ..." cried her 
 nurse. " Why are you like that ? . . . What has 
 happened?" 
 
 Dione stood, and stared at her. 
 
 Cecca seized her wrist, and shook her. 
 285
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 "Speak! . . . speak! . . ." said she. "Have 
 you been out into the night alone ? . . . Was the 
 Signore with you? . . . Where is the Signore?" 
 
 That cunning, crafty look stole into the girl s 
 face. 
 
 "Sh!" said she, with her finger at her lips. 
 "That is Pan s secret. . . ." 
 
 Dio mio ! Dio mio I It is my belief that you 
 are in a raving fever. . . . No . . . Madonna! for 
 you are colder than a corpse. ... Sit here. . . . 
 Do as I bid you. . . . Now drink this wine. ..." 
 
 The girl took a few swallows with great diffi 
 culty, obedient from the long habit of childhood. 
 Then she sat quite silent in a corner of the chim 
 ney, huddled among the warm coverings that 
 Cecca had heaped about her, staring into the just- 
 kindled blaze of pine cones. 
 
 "O blessed Virgin! ..." groaned the other, 
 distracted. "O Mary Mother, grant that she be 
 not going mad! . . . Never have I seen till now 
 such a look in the eyes of any creature. . . ." 
 
 Suddenly Dione bent that look on her. 
 
 "Now, Cecca," she said, fretfully, "please 
 bring me my baby ! . . . Please give him to me, 
 Cecca! ... I want to nurse him. . . . You al 
 ways keep him so long. . . . You are jealous be 
 cause all your sons are grown. . . . Please give 
 me my baby, Cecca dear! ... I am so cold. 
 ... It will warm me to hold him. . . . And I 
 am lonely. . . . Please, dear Cecca! . . ." 
 
 286
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 Cecca stared for a moment at the extended, 
 empty arms, at the empty, hungry eyes ; then she 
 threw herself down upon the stone floor and tore 
 at her gray hair. 
 
 Dione watched her listlessly. 
 
 "Please get up and give me my baby, Cec 
 ca! . . ." she kept saying. "I am so lonely! . . ." 
 
 Far back in the high foothills of the Italian 
 Alps, above Lago Maggiore, an old and a young 
 woman live together in a little hut of stone such 
 as are built on those uplands. The only man of 
 their household is a big dog whom the peasants 
 thereabout call "The White Wolf." They have 
 a bit of grass-land and keep two cows. The old 
 woman tends the house and dairy, and goes down 
 to the valley to sell the milk and butter. The 
 young woman helps in these matters sometimes, 
 but chiefly she watches the cows and tosses the 
 new-mown hay for she loves best to be out-of- 
 doors. Besides, she is vacant and entirely list 
 less unless her boy is either in her arms or lying 
 near her where she can watch him when she is 
 working. The dog is not jealous of the child, 
 though he follows its mother like a white shadow, 
 but will sit guarding it for hours as it lies on a 
 haymow while its mother tosses up the fragrant 
 grass. Does any venture too near he lifts a 
 threatening lip and shows his fangs, growling 
 slightly. 
 
 287
 
 PAN S MOUNTAIN 
 
 The young woman is very pale, with a crown of 
 black flame-like hair. When she smiles and 
 nurses her baby she is beautiful. The peasants 
 call her "La Bella Matta" (The Beautiful Mad- 
 girl), and cross themselves as she goes by with 
 The White Wolf at her side, singing or talking to 
 her boy. He crows and leaps against her breast 
 in answer, and she lets him pull out handfuls of 
 her splendid hair without wincing. 
 
 Sometimes she stands quite still and looks 
 down at him wistfully, saying : "I have forgotten 
 thy name, my treasure. But God has it written 
 down somewhere. Cecca told me about it." 
 
 Oftenest she sings to him, though. Strange 
 lullabys they are. The peasants, listening, cross 
 themselves again. And the one she sings most 
 frequently has a wild, piteous refrain: 
 
 "Why are thy long black tresses always dripping, O 
 
 maiden ? 
 
 My hair is wet with my tears and the water that 
 drowned my lover."
 
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