rub, which afforded certain eatage for goats.

Here three herd-boys, Luca, Biagio, and Astorre, simple brown-skinned
souls, watched their flocks all the summer night, sleeping, waking to
play pranks with each other, whining endless doggerel, praying at every
scare, and swearing at every reassurance. Simple puppyish folk though
they were, Madonna of the Peach-Tree chose them to witness her epiphany.

It was a very still night, of wonderful star-shine, but without a moon.
The stars were so thickly spread, so clear and hot, that there was light
enough for the lads to see each other's faces, the rough shapes of each
other. It was light enough to notice how the square belfry of San Zeno
cut a wedge of black into the spangled blue vault. Sheer through the
Milky Way it ploughed a broad furrow, which ended in a ragged edge. You
would never have seen that if it had not been a clear night.

Still also it was. You heard the cropping of the goats, the jaws' champ
when they chewed the crisp leaves; the flicker of the bats' wings. In
the marsh, half a mile away, the chorus of frogs, when it swelled up,
drowned all nearer noise; but when it broke off suddenly, those others
resumed their hold upon the stillness. It was a breathless night of
suspense. Anything might happen on such a night.

Luca, Biagio, and Astorre, under the spell of this marvellous night, lay
on their stomachs alert for alarms. A heavy-wheeling white owl had come
by with a swish, and Biagio had called aloud to Madonna in his agony.
Astorre had crossed himself over and over again: this was the Angel of
Death cruising abroad on the hunt for goats or goat-herds; but "No, no!"
cried Luca, eldest of the three, "the wings are too short, friends. That
is a fluffy new soul just let loose. She knows not the way, you see. Let
us pray for her. There are devils abroad on such close nights as this."

Pray they did, with a will, "Ave Maria," "O maris Stella," and half the
Paternoster, when Biagio burst into a guffaw, and gave Luca a push which
sent Astorre down.

"Why, 'tis only a screech-owl, you fools!" he cried, though the sound of
his own voice made him falter; "an old mouse-teaser," he went on in a
much lower voice. "Who's afraid?"

A black and white cat making a pounce had sent hearts to mouths after
this: though they found her out before they had got to "Dominus tecum,"
she left them all in a quiver. It had been a cat, but it might have been
the devil. Then, before th