ce. Leaning forward, she played with the
red tassels at San Pietro's ears.

"Go on! go on!" she commanded. "Avanti!"

San Pietro thought that the words were meant for him, and indeed they
were more appropriate here for donkey than for man.

"He sat with them and shared their polenta," continued Bertuccio,
walking more rapidly to keep up with San Pietro's quickened step. "And
he made them all afraid. It was not that he had any terrible look, or
that he did anything strange, only, each glance, each motion told that
he was more than merely man. And he looked at the maiden with eyes of
love, and she at him," said Bertuccio, lacking art to keep his hearer
in suspense. "She too was beautiful, as beautiful, perhaps, as the
Signorina," continued the story-teller.

Daphne looked at him sharply: did he mean any further comparison?
There were hot waves now on neck and face, and her heart was beating
furiously.

"He came often, and he always met the maiden by the hollow tree: it was
large enough for them to stand inside. And her father and mother were
troubled, for they knew he was a god, not one of our faith, Signorina,
but one of the older gods who lived here before the coming of our Lord.
One day as he stood there by the tree and was kissing the maiden on her
mouth, her father came, very angry, and scolded her, and defied the
god, telling him to go away and never show his face there again. And
then, he never knew how it happened, for the stranger did not touch
him, but he fell stunned to the ground, with a queer flash of light in
his eyes. When he woke, the stars were shining over him, and he
crawled home. But the maiden was gone, and they never saw her any
more, Signorina. Whether it was for good or for ill, she had been
carried away by the god. People think that they disappeared inside the
tree, for it closed up that night, and it never opened again.
Sometimes they thought they heard voices coming from it, and once or
twice, cries and sobs of a woman. Maybe she is imprisoned there and
cannot get out: it would be a terrible fate, would it not, Signorina?
Me, I think it is better to fight shy of the heathen gods."

Bertuccio's white teeth showed in a broad smile, but no scrutiny on
Daphne's part could tell her whether he had told his story for pleasure
merely, or for warning. She rode on in silence, realizing, as she had
not realized before, how far this peasant stock reached back into the
elder days of the