not drink a little more of it, and go jollily to bed at least,
even if he should awake with an accession of darker melancholy the next
morning.

Nevertheless, there was no lack of outward means for leading an
agreeable life in the old villa. Wandering musicians haunted the
precincts of Monte Beni, where they seemed to claim a prescriptive
right; they made the lawn and shrubbery tuneful with the sound of
fiddle, harp, and flute, and now and then with the tangled squeaking of
a bagpipe. Improvisatori likewise came and told tales or recited verses
to the contadini--among whom Kenyon was often an auditor--after their
day's work in the vineyard. Jugglers, too, obtained permission to do
feats of magic in the hall, where they set even the sage Tomaso, and
Stella, Girolamo, and the peasant girls from the farmhouse, all of a
broad grin, between merriment and wonder. These good people got food and
lodging for their pleasant pains, and some of the small wine of Tuscany,
and a reasonable handful of the Grand Duke's copper coin, to keep up
the hospitable renown of Monte Beni. But very seldom had they the young
Count as a listener or a spectator.

There were sometimes dances by moonlight on the lawn, but never since he
came from Rome did Donatello's presence deepen the blushes of the
pretty contadinas, or his footstep weary out the most agile partner or
competitor, as once it was sure to do.

Paupers--for this kind of vermin infested the house of Monte Beni worse
than any other spot in beggar-haunted Italy--stood beneath all the
windows, making loud supplication, or even establishing themselves on
the marble steps of the grand entrance. They ate and drank, and filled
their bags, and pocketed the little money that was given them, and went
forth on their devious ways, showering blessings innumerable on the
mansion and its lord, and on the souls of his deceased forefathers, who
had always been just such simpletons as to be compassionate to
beggary. But, in spite of their favorable prayers, by which Italian
philanthropists set great store, a cloud seemed to hang over these once
Arcadian precincts, and to be darkest around the summit of the tower
where Donatello was wont to sit and brood.

CHAPTER XXVII

MYTHS

After the sculptor's arrival, however, the young Count sometimes
came down from his forlorn elevation, and rambled with him among the
neighboring woods and hills. He led his friend to many enchanting nooks,
wit