at
every window--basta, basta, la citta!

No: it was to the hills she lifted up her eyes, to the hills and the
swart goatherds free of their mystery. That _riviera_ across the canal,
where the budding planes made a mist of brown and rose, was a favourite
haunt of theirs. There they assembled and milked their goats, thence set
out homewards at night. Sitting in the pleached arbours, with two
adoring ladies at her feet and a little cluster of youths behind and
beside her, she used to peer long and earnestly through the branches to
see them collect their flocks and start for the hills at dusk. Lithe,
brown, sinewy lads they were! What long legs they had, with what bravery
wore their ragged cloaks! One carried a great bulging skin under his
arm--bagpipes! She was sure they made good music to each other in the
green country places. Very early in the morning she heard them come in;
they were known by their bells. She jumped out of her luxurious bed at
the first tinkle, and was at the shutter watching for them before ever
they rounded the angle of the Ponte della Morte. There they came! colour
of dust, with the straggling goats following after in a cloud of it. Her
impulse was to fling wide the casement, hold out both her arms, call to
them with all her might, "Ha! help, in the name of the Trinity! Take me
with you to the green hills. I am weary of life in this place!" Then,
knowing she could not, she would hold herself back by main force, stare
about her, run back, throw herself on the bed, lie there sobbing wildly,
and so be found by her ladies who came to put her in that detestable
bath. She was sure her skin was being rotted by so much water; she used
to feel her arms and thighs secretly to see if they were palpably more
flabby. It stood to reason that the water must soak in--where else could
it go to! She thought that she walked like a bladder, supposing a
bladder were to take itself legs. The whole affair was clean abominable;
but she saw no way out.

The way came.

V

ANNINA AS DEMIURGE

They held a tournament in the courtyard of the villa; quite a concourse
thronged the painted lists. Ippolita, a miracle of rose and gold, in a
white gauzy robe, her hair crowned with daisies, was Queen of Love and
Beauty, fanned by ladies in red. Del Dardo tilted with Vittore
Marzipane, Gottardo de' Brancacci with Giacomo Feo, a young lion from
the Romagna. Messer Meleagro very nearly fell off his horse. They were
all in