chway with a
heavy iron gate. The man with the lantern pushed the gate open. This
time they went up steps instead of down, and at the top of them was a
little path that wound upwards among flowers. They could not see the
flowers, but the whole place was evidently full of them.

It here dawned on Mrs. Wilkins that perhaps the reason why the fly had
not driven them up to the door was that there was no road, only a
footpath. That also would explain the disappearance of the suit-cases.
She began to feel confident that they would find their suit-cases
waiting for them when they got up to the top. San Salvatore was, it
seemed, on the top of a hill, as a mediaeval castle should be. At a
turn of the path they saw above them, much nearer now and shining
more brightly, the light they had seen from the quay. She told Mrs.
Arbuthnot of her dawning belief, and Mrs. Arbuthnot agreed that it was
very likely a true one.

Once more, but this time in a tone of real hopefulness, Mrs.
Wilkins said, pointing upwards at the black outline against the only
slightly less black sky, "San Salvatore?" And once more, but this time
comfortingly, encouragingly, came back the assurance, "Si, si--San
Salvatore."

They crossed a little bridge, over what was apparently a ravine,
and then came a flat bit with long grass at the sides and more flowers.
They felt the grass flicking wet against their stockings, and the
invisible flowers were everywhere. Then up again through trees, along
a zigzag path with the smell all the way of the flowers they could not
see. The warm rain was bringing out all the sweetness. Higher and
higher they went in this sweet darkness, and the red light on the jetty
dropped farther and farther below them.

The path wound round to the other side of what appeared to be a
little peninsula; the jetty and the red light disappeared; across the
emptiness on their left were distant lights.

"Mezzago," said the man, waving his lantern at the lights.

"Si, si," they answered, for they had by now learned si, si.
Upon which the man congratulated them in a great flow of polite words,
not one of which they understood, on their magnificent Italian; for
this was Domenico, the vigilant and accomplished gardener of San
Salvatore, the prop and stay of the establishment, the resourceful, the
gifted, the eloquent, the courteous, the intelligent Domenico. Only
they did not know that yet; and he did in the dark, and even sometimes
in t