Legends and stories of Italy for children

LEGENDS
AND

STORIES

ITALY

AMY-STEEDMAN

•P1CTURCS-BY

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LEGENDS AND STORIES OF ITALY

.

C K Y 5 . tA-L • WAT El R

LEGENDS AND
STORIES OF ITALY

FOR CHILDREN

BY

AMY STEEDMAN

PICTURED UV

KATHARINE CAMERON

NEW YORK

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK

TO WINIFRED

PROPERTY OF ^ ,/

CITY Of NEW YORK
vj

1549985

ABOUT THIS BOOK

' I WANT a hidden pearl story to-day,' said the child.

' What kind of a story is that ? ' asked the saint.
She was a real saint, although every one could not
see the golden halo that shone round her dear head.

' One of the old stories which you say are like the
common shells that have a pearl hidden inside,'
answered the child.

* Ah, then you must listen with your heart as well
as your ears,' said the saint, ' or you will not find the
pearl. Mother Earth takes care to hide away her
gold and precious stones deep down in the earth.
The diver, too, must seek in the depths of the sea
before he gathers the rough shells in which the shining
pearls lie hid. So it is with the hidden treasure
which lies wrapped up in these old legends and stories.
Those who would find it must seek carefully and
patiently, for only thus can it be found. For just
as the sweet green grass and common flowers cover
the earth where treasure lies hid, just as the rough
shell holds in its heart the soft, shining pearl, so these

vi STORIES AND LEGENDS OF ITALY

stories may seem at first but simple, common tales,
but those who look beneath will find at the heart of
them a living truth more precious than gold or
shining pearls.'

' I will listen carefully,' said the child, ' but I love
even the rough shells of your pearl stories.'

AMY STEEDMAN.

FLORENCE, 1909.

LIST OF LEGENDS AND STORIES
PART I— LEGENDS

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE ... 3

THE MERCIFUL KNIGHT .10

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA . ,. . . .16

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN . . . . .26

DOMENICA 34

THE LEGEND OF THE CASTELLANO . . . .41

STELLA MARIS 47

THE ANGEL AND THE DIAVOLO 52

LITTLE LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA . . . .68
THE LITTLE COUNTESS 64

PART II— STORIES

STELLANTE 71

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY . . . . .103

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 118

THE ANGELS' ROBE 134

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE . ... 151

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA . 164

LIST OF PICTURES

SHE HELD A GOBLET OF COOL, CRYSTAL WATER . . Frontispiece

TO FAOE PAOI

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE ..... 8

I WILL LEND THEE THIS SOFT WARM CLOAK .... 22

SHE HAD SEEN THE CHRIST-CHILD ...... 40

STELLA MARIS, STAR OF THE SEA ...... 50

MADONNA .......... 62

STELLANTE .......... 70

LEFT HELPLESS ON THE DESOLATE SHORE .... 86

BEATRICE AND MARZIALE . . . . . . . .122

THESE ARE FOR THE LITTLE FEET THAT ARE NEVER TOO TIRED

TO RUN ERRANDS FOR OTHERS ..... 148

DlANORA . .152

I HAVE FOUND PEACE AT LAST 178

PART I
LEGENDS OF ITALY

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE

IT was the night on which our Blessed Lord was born,
and the angels had brought their message of peace and
goodwill to the shepherds upon the lonely hillside.

The glory of that heavenly vision had left the men
awed and silent as they gathered round their fire.
The news of the birth of the long looked for Infant
King filled their hearts so full of wonder and of joy
that for a while they could not speak. But ere long
they roused themselves and in low tones began to talk
of what they had seen and of all that the message of
the angels meant. There was surely but one thing to
be done — they must set out at once to seek the new-born
King. So they began to plan how they might safely
leave their sheep, and to pile the fire high with dry
branches that the blaze might keep away all evil beasts.

So intent were they on their preparations, and so
filled with the wonder of that night, that none of them
gave a thought to the little child who lay in the warm
shelter of a rock close to the fire. She had been helping
her father tend the sheep all day, and had crept into
the bed of dry leaves to rest, for she was very tired.
The shepherds never noticed her as she lay in the
shadow of the rock, and even if they had, they would

4 LEGENDS OF ITALY

have deemed her far too young to understand the

glorious vision of that starry night.

But the little maid had seen the opening of heaven's
gates and heard the angels' message. With wondering
eyes she had gazed upon those white-robed messengers
of peace and listened to their words. There was much
that she did not understand, but this at least she knew,
that a little Baby had been born that night in the
village close by, that He was the King of Heaven and
had brought God's love and forgiveness to all the poor
people upon earth.

Now as she lay in her warm corner watching the
bright flames as they rose and fell, a little lamb nestling
close at her feet for warmth, she had but one thought
in her heart, How could she see this Bambino, this
new-born King. Very anxiously she watched the
shepherds and tried to hear what they were saying.
She saw one lift a lamb in his arms, another take a
home-made cheese from their little store, another a
loaf of barley-bread. Then there was a movement
away from the fire, and she saw they were preparing
to set out down the hill. They were going to seek
the King, and if she followed she would see Him
too.

In an instant she had left her warm corner and was
speeding after the men. Quickly and silently she
crept along behind them, trying always to keep out of
sight lest one of them should turn his head and bid her
go home. But the shepherds were all too eager to think

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 5

of aught but the wonderful quest which lay before
them, and they never thought of looking back, nor
did they hear the patter of small bare feet upon the
frozen ground.

It was a bitterly cold night. The moon shone down
on ice-bound streams and fields white with hoar-frost.
Not a sound was to be heard but the soft sighing of the
wind passing gently through the bare branches of the
trees. Not a light was to be seen in any of the huts
they passed, for every one was fast asleep. But over-
head there shone a wonderful star like a silver globe of
light going before them as they went. So the little
company passed on, and the child kept bravely up
behind, although the ground was rough and hard and
sorely hurt her bare feet. It was not easy to keep
pace with the men's swift stride, but she never stopped
to rest until she had entered the village street of
Bethlehem, and the shepherds paused before a little
shed over which the silver star was shining down.

Here they halted and talked together in low tones,
while the child drew aside into the shadow of the
house to watch what they would do.

She saw them take out from their wallets the things
which they had brought, and realised for the first time
that they were presents for the Infant King. There
was the loaf of barley-bread, the home-made cheese, a
handful of dried fruit and the fleece of a lamb, white and
soft, fit to wrap around a baby's limbs this cold wintry
night. There were other things besides, but all were

6 LEGENDS OF ITALY

poor simple gifts, and the shepherds looked at the array
half sadly.

' They make but a poor show,' said one with
shame.

' They are indeed but simple offerings,' said another ;
' but He will understand that it is our best we give
with the true love of our hearts.'

' Ay, surely,' said a third, ' and poor though they
be, they are better than nothing. It would be a sin
indeed to come empty-handed to greet our King this
night.'

Those words fell on the listening ears of the child,
and when she heard them, all hope and joy died out of
her heart. She had no gift to offer. She looked down
at her little empty sun-browned hands and a great sob
rose in her throat. If it were a sin to go in without a
gift, then she must stay outside. She had come so far
and longed so greatly to see the Infant King, and now
it was all no use, the sight was not for her. Perhaps if
she crept near the door she might peep in when it was
opened and catch if it were only a glimpse, while
she herself remained unseen.

The shepherds knocked at the door and reverently
bared their heads. A low sweet voice bade them enter,
and the door was opened. Pressing forward, the child
tried to look in. There in the soft light she saw a fair
young mother with head bent low, and behind her an ox
and an ass feeding from a low manger. She tried to see
the Bambino, but the forms of the kneeling shepherds

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 7

came between, and even as she looked, the door was
shut and she was left outside.

Then it seemed as if her heart would break. She
was so weary and so footsore, and all her trouble had
been for nought. The King was so near, only a wall
between Him and her, and yet she was not to see Him.
She threw herself down on the hard gravel and buried
her head in her arms, while the sobs came thick and
fast and her tears made the very ground wet.

Presently the door opened and the shepherds came
out with slow and reverent steps. They did not see
her, for she had crept close to the wall, and when they
started on their homeward way she did not move to
follow them. She was too tired and sorrowful to care
what became of her now.

But presently as she lay there, with the tears still
dropping one by one, she started and looked closely at
the ground. What were those pale-green shoots that
were bursting up between the cracks of the stones ?
Now they were growing into glossy leaves. She held
her breath with wonder, but true it was that wherever
a tear had fallen and thawed the frozen earth, a bud
had begun to swell. The pale-green shoots grew taller
and taller, the glossy leaves unfolded and showed
pink-tipped buds hanging between, which, as she
gazed, opened into blossoms with petals as silver white
as moonbeams upon the glistening snow.

A glad thought came into the child's sorrowful heart.
Why, here was the very gift she was seeking, and she

8 LEGENDS OF ITALY

yet might see the King. Eagerly she stretched out
her hands and gathered the open blossoms and pink
flushed buds, with one or two glossy leaves to place
around them. Then she went close to the door and
timidly ventured on a very little knock. She waited,
scarcely daring to breathe, but no one answered, and
so putting both hands against the door she pushed it a
little way open.

The Madonna was sitting in the poor stable by the
little bed of hay on which the Gesu Bambino slept.
She was bending over Him and softly singing a lullaby,
her eyes still shining with quiet joy over the thought of
the wondrous tale told her by the simple shepherds.
Suddenly a draught of cold air came sweeping in, and
she turned her head to see who had opened the door.
A little child stood there with flushed cheeks on which
the tears were scarcely dry. Wistful eyes were raised
to hers, and two small hands held out a bunch of
snowy blossoms.

The Madonna needed no words to tell her what it
meant. Her mother-heart understood at once what
the little one wanted. Very gently she drew her in
and led her to the little manger-bed and bade her lay
her flowers there in the little, helpless hands of the
new-born King. The child knelt and gazed at the
sleeping Bambino. She forgot her tiredness and weary
feet, she forgot her tears and disappointment, and she
dimly felt that the happiness that filled her heart
would live on and on for ever.

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 9

And now when winter-time comes and the days are
dark and the nights are long, when the snow covers up
all the sleeping flowers and the Christmas bells ring out,
the white blossoms of the child's flowers appear above
the cold, dark earth. We call them the Christmas
roses now, in memory of the little one who had no
other gift to offer that first Christmas morning, but
the gift of her sorrowful tears.

THE MERCIFUL KNIGHT

IN the long-ago days, when the clash of arms was often
heard in the streets of Florence, and when the sons of
the great families were brought up early to learn the use
of sword and lance, men thought more of a strong arm
and brave deeds than of kindness and compassion for
the weak. It is true that the knights were gentle
and courteous to fair ladies, and truth and honour
were as dear to them as their swords, but they had
learnt to repay evil for evil, never to forgive an injury,
and to take vengeance into their own hands.

In such a time as this, then, the story of the Merciful
Knight shines out like the steady gleam of a single
bright star, set in a dark sky. The beauty of its clear
light is the more precious because of the darkness
around.

It was in one of the proudest of the great Florentine
families that the two little brothers, Giovanni and
Hugo Gualberto, were brought up. The boys were
taught all that noble children were expected to learn
in those days, especially how to be skilful and quick
in the use of all knightly weapons, so that they might
be trained to be brave knights and courageous soldiers.

But besides this they were taught the lessons of

10

THE MERCIFUL KNIGHT 11

their creed, for it was the duty of a Christian knight
to hold in reverence all holy things. Together the
two little brothers would kneel in the great dim church
at Christmastide when the story of Bethlehem was
pictured once more. The little waxen Bambino lying
in the straw, guarded by the gentle mother and
S. Joseph, taught the old lesson of humility and God's
goodwill towards men. The ox and the ass too, that
stood by the manger looking on with such wise eyes,
would help them to remember that God's dumb
creatures have also a share in His merciful kindness.

Then when Holy Week came round and all the
city bells had ceased to ring, because it was Good
Friday, the boys would kneel again beneath the crucifix
and gaze with awe upon the sad scene of suffering.
That was a difficult lesson to learn, why the King
should suffer so at the hands of His servants. It was
easier to understand the joy and brightness of Easter-
tide, when the bells rang out once more, and the world
seemed full of joy because the King had triumphed
over His enemies.

So the boys grew up, learning their lessons together,
and loving each other with a deep and special love.
They were the only children in the old grey palace,
and shared with each other every joy and sorrow that
came into their lives.

Then when all was sunshine and joy, when life was
spreading out all its pleasures at the feet of the two
young knights, suddenly the blow fell which seemed

12 LEGENDS OF ITALY

to blot out for ever the light from Giovanni's life.
His brother Hugo, setting out one morning full of life
and gaiety, was brought back ere nightfall pierced
through the heart by an enemy's dagger.

There had been, perhaps, some hot quarrel, but
the boy had been cruelly done to death by treachery,
and no more than that was known.

It seemed impossible to believe, but it was only too
true. Hugo was dead, and a deep wail of grief went
up to heaven and a wild cry for vengeance upon the
murderer.

The old father seemed turned to stone in his grief.
The broken-hearted mother wept until she could weep
no more. And then both turned to Giovanni, their
one hope, and bade him avenge his brother's cruel
death.

It was little urging that Giovanni needed. His
heart burned within him like a red-hot coal in his wrath.
No softening tears quenched the light of vengeance
that glowed in his eyes. With his strong right hand
he grasped his sword, and looking up to heaven he
vowed that he would rest not, night nor day, until
he had killed the murderer of his brother. He
would hunt him down, no matter where he was hid.
Nothing should save him from the vengeance which
was his due. So Giovanni set out on his search, and
it seemed as if in a few hours the light-hearted boy was
changed into a stern-faced man.

It was springtime, but to Giovanni all seasons

THE MERCIFUL KNIGHT 13

seemed alike. The sky was blue and the earth was
bursting into flowers, but it might have been dead
winter for all he knew. There was no sun in his sky.
All was black before his eyes, lightened only by the
glow of that one desire for vengeance. Day by day
and hour by hour he searched, but no sign of his
enemy could he find, and at last he turned wearily
away from the city, and set out for the country-house,
outside Florence, where his father and mother were
waiting for news.

It was the evening of Good Friday, and a solemn
stillness seemed to brood over the land. But Giovanni
never noticed that the bells were silent and that there
was no sound to tell the passing hours. Slowly he
began to mount the steep hill which leads from the
city gates to the church of San Miniato, which he must
needs pass on his way home.

Half-way up the hill, a little road turns off sharply
to the right, and there at the corner Giovanni suddenly
came face to face with the man he was seeking, the
enemy who had so cruelly killed his brother.

Quick as lightning Giovanni drew his sword, and a
wild rush of joy filled his heart. Here was his enemy,
given into his hand, alone and unarmed. There could
be no escape. Vengeance had triumphed.

The wretched man saw too that all chance of escape
was hopeless. Neither could he fight for his life, for
he had no weapon. He was indeed given into the
hand of the avenger. There was but one thing he

14 LEGENDS OF ITALY

could do, and throwing himself upon his knees he
pleaded for mercy.

' For the love of Christ,' he cried, ' I beseech thee
to spare my life. He who on this day hung upon the
Cross to save mankind, would He not have us show
mercy to one another ? For the love of Him, our
Saviour, have mercy upon me ! '

And as he spoke he spread out his arms in the form
of a cross, and looked upwards beseechingly into the
eyes of the avenging knight.

There was a moment's pause. The uplifted sword
was stayed. A terrible struggle was going on in
Giovanni's heart. Could he forgo the revenge for
which he had thirsted so long? The man was a
murderer and deserved punishment. But had not
Christ upon the Cross prayed for forgiveness for His
own murderers ? The meaning of the old lesson, so
hard to understand, became clear. This was the
higher devoir. Was not He, the perfect Knight, the
example of all true courage and knightliness ?

The struggle was fierce, but a prayer rose from his
heart for help to overcome, and slowly he lowered his
sword. Then as he gazed at the trembling wretch at
his feet, a great pity began to flow into his heart, and
he bent down and raised the man from his knees, and
embraced him in token of forgiveness. There they
parted, and Giovanni, still trembling after the fierce
struggle that had gone on in his heart, went slowly
on his way up the steep hill, until he came to the church

THE MERCIFUL KNIGHT 15

door. Turning aside he went in, and found his way
in the darkness to the high altar where a great crucifix
hung. There he knelt and hid his face in his hands,
and the great hot tears forced their way through his
fingers and dropped on the marble floor.

He saw now that revenge was but a cruel black act,
which no Christian knight should take into his own
hands. He thought how often he had offended and
grieved that gentle Master Who had hung so uncom-
plainingly upon the Cross to save his soul. And in the
silence, the prayer rose to his lips : ' O Christ, Who
hast taught me to be merciful to mine enemy, have
mercy upon me and forgive me, as I have shown mercy
to him.'

And surely the prayer was heard, for as the words
fell upon the stillness, lo ! the figure of the Christ
above bent down, and in gracious answer kissed the
bowed head of the Merciful Knight.

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA

UP among the marble mountains of Carrara there are
beautiful glens where many a little village clings to the
side of the hills or nestles in the valley below. Lower
down in these glens are fruitful vineyards and olive
woods, while higher up the chestnuts and pine-trees
grow, with little patches of cornfields between. But
high and low there are always flowers springing up to
make the world beautiful with their colours of purple,
white, and gold.

It was in one of these little villages among the hills;
nine miles north of the city of Lucca, that one of the
fairest flowers in God's Garden blossomed long years
ago. She was only a poor little peasant baby, born in
a humble home, and she never became rich or grand or
powerful. But the story of her life, laid by now and
almost forgotten, has still the sweet perfume of those
hidden flowers which never fade.

It was to a very poor home that little Zita came,
poor at least as the world counts poverty. Her father
and mother worked hard, but even then there was not
always enough to eat, and in winter-time Zita was
often cold and hungry. But there are other things
that count more than gold, and the little home was rich

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA 17

in goodness and kindness and honesty. There was
not a better man in all the countryside than the father,
Giovanni Lombardo, and the mother, who was called
Buonissima (which in Italian means very good),
early taught her little daughter all that was good
and true.

The child was easily trained, for she was so sweet-
tempered and obedient and thoughtful for others.
She was quick and merry too, and very helpful in the
house. It was only when she knelt in church that she
grew quiet and dreamy. She loved to think of the
Gesu Bambino who was born in just such a poor little
place as theirs, and of the years He walked on earth.
She pictured Him going from one little village to
another, helping all the poor people she knew, and then
on to the great city below where rich and powerful
people lived, who still needed His help. The charm of
that life seemed to fill her whole heart.

The little mountain maidens very quickly leave their
childhood behind and learn to be helpful women, and
Zita was only twelve years old when she began to
think it was time she should try to earn her own living.
Her father worked so hard and her mother too. She
could not bear to think that she was doing nothing,
and she prayed that the good God would send her
some work to do.

' Little daughter,' said her mother that very day,
' thy father and I have found a place for thee with a
noble family at Lucca. I know thou wilt do thy best

18 LEGENDS OF ITALY

to be a good servant, for in serving thy master thou
wilt be serving God.'

' I am ready to start at once,' said Zita cheerfully,
' and I will do my very best.'

There were not many preparations to make, and the
little maid soon set out with her father to walk the
nine miles that lay between them and the city of Lucca,
where her work was waiting for her.

It was to the Casa Fantenelli that they were bound,
and Zita thovight herself most fortunate to be engaged
to serve such a noble family. But it must have been
very hard for the little maid, in spite of the twelve
years which made her feel so grown-up and womanly,
to keep back the tears as she said good-bye to her
father. It felt so lonely to be left standing at the
door of the Casa, in a strange town, among strange
people.

But Zita seldom wasted much time thinking of her-
self. She was always looking for the work that was
waiting to be done next, and had no thought to spare
beyond the desire to do that well. So, although there
was perhaps a mist of tears over her dark eyes as she
watched her father turn and go down the street, she
did not watch for long, but passed through the great
door, anxious to begin work at once. She was but a
child when she entered that service, but she never left
it again, and served the family well and faithfully until
her death.

Never had there been a more hard-working little

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA 19

maid. No one knew how early she got up, and how
much work she got through before the sun began to
rise. There was only one favour she asked, and that
was to be allowed to go to the early service at the
church close by. And as she always came quickly
home and worked twice as well when it was over, she
was allowed to go each morning as she wished.

All the family grew fond of the cheerful, busy little
maid who served them so faithfully, and as the years
went by, everything was left in her hands, for they
knew she could be trusted.

There was no waste in the kitchen now, for Zita had
always a thought for the poor, and nothing was thrown
away that could with care be used for them. Even
her leisure time she spent in helping others, and many
a sick and lonely person was cheered and fed by the
little maid, who often went hungry herself that she
might share her food with them.

It was indeed seldom that Zita neglected or forgot
a duty, but one morning a strange thing happened.
It was the day Avhen the bread was to be baked, and
the loaves should have been ready before Zita started
for church. She could not think afterwards how she
had forgotten, and it was only when she rose from her
knees after the service that she suddenly remembered
that she had left her work undone. In great distress
she hurried home, and was quite breathless with
running when she entered the kitchen.

But as she looked towards the table she stood quite

20 LEGENDS OF ITALY

still and her eyes grew round with wonder. There
lay a row of loaves, all evenly shaped and ready to be
baked, with a white cloth laid over them to keep them
from the dust. Could it possibly be her mistress who
had come down and done her work ? But no, no one
was stirring in the house, every one was fast asleep.

Then a great feeling of contentment filled the heart of
the little maid. Something told her that it was God's
good angels that had done this kindness. Their help-
ful hands had not scorned the lowly service, that they
might help a little hard-working maid-servant while
she prayed in church.

Zita had always loved her work, but the thought of
the angels' help seemed to make the common duties
of life beautiful in her eyes, and she felt more than ever
that it was the service of the King.

That winter was a hard one for the poor. The cold
was bitter and lasted long. Zita had given away all
the warm clothes she had, and still she grieved for the
poor souls who shivered in the keen wind and whom
she could not help. And when Christmas morning
dawned it was the coldest day of all. The air was
thick with snow, and the icy wind swept every thought
of warmth away. The people who were hurrying to
church were wrapped up to their ears in their cloaks,
and walked with their heads well down to escape the
sting of the bitter mountain wind.

Zita as usual was ready to start, never giving a
thought to the cold, though her dress was thin a,nd

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA 21

she had no cloak to cover her. But she had not gone
many steps from the door when she heard her master's
voice calling to her.

' Zita,' he said, ' it is madness to go out in such
weather as this. Thou hast no cloak and thy garments
are but thin. Be content and stay at home to-day.'

' O master ! ' she cried, and the tears started to her
eyes, ' bid me do anything but that. It is the festa
of the Christ-child, and I go to greet Him in His
church.'

' Nay, but thou wilt be frozen,' said her master.

' The church is near,' said Zita pleadingly, ' and I
shall scarce feel the cold.'

Her master smiled and bade her take her own way,
but as he spoke he took off his own warm cloak and
wrapped it round her shoulders.

' I will lend thee this,' he said, ' that it may keep
thee warm whilst thou art in the church. But re-
member it is but lent and thou must bring it safely
back to me.'

Never had Zita felt so warm and comfortable before.
The thick soft cloak kept out the piercing cold and
sent a glow of warmth down to her very toes. She
said to herself that now she knew what the young
birds must feel like when they creep under their
mother's wing.

But with the warmth and comfort came another
thought. This was the day when Christ was born in
a poor bare stable where all had been cold and hard for

22 LEGENDS OF ITALY

Him. No fine soft clothing had covered Him, and it
seemed scarcely right that she, His servant, should
fare so much better than her Master.

' Forgive me, Lord,' she prayed. ' Thou knowest I
did not ask to wear this cloak, and I would gladly
suffer far more than cold for Thy dear sake.'

She reached the church door just as her prayer was
ended, and there she stopped for a moment to look
with pity upon a poor beggar-man who stood leaning
against the wall. He was very poor and thin, and he
shivered as he stood there, as if half dead with cold.
Zita's heart was filled with a great pity as she looked at
him, and she went closer and gently touched his arm.

' Brother,' she said, ' art thou so very cold ? See
here, I will lend thee this soft warm cloak. I cannot
give it thee, for it is not mine. But while we kneel
together in church it shall keep thee warm, and after-
wards thou shalt come with me and warm thyself at
my kitchen fire.'

So Zita and the beggar-man knelt together through
the service, and though the stones were cold on which
the little maid knelt, she never missed the soft warmth
of the fine cloak. Her heart was warm with her great
love and the worship she had brought. But presently,
the service ended, people began to stream out, and
Zita turned to where the man had knelt beside her to
bid him once more come home with her. But the
beggar was gone. Up and down the church she went
seeking him, but he was nowhere to be found. At last

'1-V/ILL-LEND-THE.E-fhIS
SOFT-U/ARAV CLOAK .

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA 23

the sacristan crossly bade her begone, for it was time
to shut the doors. Poor Zita ! she scarcely knew what
to do.

' I had no right, even in my pity, to lend the
cloak,' she sobbed. ' How can I face my master
now ? '

And with a heavy heart she turned at last and went
slowly home.

Her face was white and she trembled with fear as she
entered the house and stood silent before her master.
He looked her over and his eyes grew stern.

' Where is the cloak I lent thee ? ' he asked. ' Did I
not bid thee bring it back to me most carefully ? '

His voice was loud and angry, for he was in a terrible
rage, seeing that the cloak was gone. His angry words
thundered out, and Zita stood silently weeping before
him with bowed head.

But who was this that stood at her side and touched
her arm so gently ? She looked up. Could it indeed
be the beggar-man ? It certainly was her master's
cloak which he placed in her hands, but round the
face that smiled so kindly down on her there was a
wondrous light, which seemed to lighten all the place.
She tried to speak, but before the words would come
he was gone.

' Who was the man ? ' the master asked in low,
awed tones.

' I thought at first it was the poor beggar-man, to
whom I lent thy cloak,' said Zita, ' for, see, he hath

24 LEGENDS OF ITALY

brought it safely back. But when I saw his face, I
knew it was the Angel of the Lord.'

The master was ashamed of the anger he had
shown. How could he blame her now ? From that
day his words grew more gentle, and angry tones were
seldom heard in the house. Indeed, it seemed as if
all evil things, all unkind thoughts, and selfish deeds
were banished at the presence of the faithful serving-
maid.

It was one day in summer when the heat was so great
that there seemed no air to breathe, that, as Zita went
to draw water from the well, a poor pilgrim passed that
way. His throat was parched and he was faint and
weary, and seeing Zita, he stopped and begged for a
draught of water to quench his thirst.

' I only wish that it was wine,' said Zita, for she knew
that it was not wise in the great heat to drink that
water.

But what could she do ? She had nothing else to
give him, and he was so thirsty. There was only one
thing she could do to guard against the danger, and so
she silently prayed the Lord that He would bless the
water and not suffer it to hurt His poor servant.

The pilgrim smiled at her words.

' I, too, wish that it was wine,' he said, as he raised
the cup to his lips.

Then he started and looked at the lowly servant-
maid who had handed him the water.

' See, but it is wine,' he said, ' the most delicious

THE SAINT-MAID OF LUCCA 25

wine that I have ever tasted.' So Zita knew the
Lord had heard her prayer.

The years went by and Zita grew old in the service
of her master, working well and faithfully until the
end, when the angels came and bore her gentle soul to
heaven.

She was only a poor serving-maid, but the people of
Lucca knew that a saint had lived among them, and
they crowded to her funeral that they might kiss her
hand and touch her garments. It was said too that a
bright star shone above the house the day she died,
but her pure life shone out more brightly than any
star, and shines on even now with a soft radiance
wherever her memory still lingers.

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN

NEAR, the Palace of the Doges in Venice there is a
wide marble bridge which is crossed by hundreds of
busy feet all day long. But few of the people who pass
that way ever notice a little marble picture, close to
the pavement, tucked away into a corner of the bridge.
It is the picture of a gentle-faced Madonna with her
Baby, and underneath are two quaint-looking boats,
with some words cut out in the marble.

Sometimes when a gondola goes gliding under the
bridge some one with noticing eyes will see the little
marble picture and ask the gondolier why it was put
there.

' Signorina,' says the gondolier, ' there is a wonderful
and true story about that little Madonna. I cannot
tell you the story now because there is so much
noise and confusion in these little canals. But some
night when we are out on the great lagunes I will tell
you why the Madonna and the boats are there.'

And this is the story which the gondolier tells
under the stars, out on the calm, still water of the
lagunes. The far-away lights of Venice shine like a
circlet of diamonds with their long reflections in the
calm waters. The world seems to our eyes like a

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN 27

crystal globe, for who can tell where the sky begins
and the water ends, or which are the most real, the
stars overhead, or their twin reflections below ? The
fireflies come out and breathe and vanish and glow
again. A little flame of blue fire breaks the surface
of the water as the oar dips down. There is magic
in everything around, which well befits the telling of
the old Venetian legend.

Long years ago there lived an old fisherman in
Venice. He was an honest, hard-working old man,
who had nothing in the world but his nets and his
fishing-boat. But what more would you have ?

At night he tied up his boat under the wide, white
bridge, and slept there snugly until the morning. It
was as good as a marble palace to him.

Of course there were storms in winter, but his boat
was always safe in the shelter of the bridge until one
terrible night.

The winter was almost past, for it was in the month
of February, when a storm burst over Venice, such as
no one had ever seen before, and no one has ever seen
since. For three days the storm raged, and the
waters rose higher and higher until it seemed as if
Venice would be swept from her foundations.

The old fisherman in his little boat was moored as
usual under the bridge, but the mad swirl of the waters
broke the moorings and he was swept out into the
open, and only managed with great difficulty to reach
the steps by the Riva of San Marco. There he landed

28 LEGENDS OF ITALY

wet through and greatly fearing what would happen
next. There was nothing to do but to sit down and
wait patiently for the storm to cease, while the angry
waves beat against his little boat, and the night grew
darker and darker.

Presently, as he sat there alone, a man came down
the steps and stood beside him. The old fisherman
knew most of the Venetian people by sight, but he had
never seen this man before.

' Fisherman,' said the stranger, ' wilt thou row me
across the water to San Giorgio ? '

Now the island on which San Giorgio stands was
not far off, but between was a grey belt of raging waves
lashed ever higher and higher by the fierce gathering
storm.

The old fisherman pointed to the waves and then to
his little boat.

' How can I row thee across ? ' he shouted, for he
needs must shout to be heard above the roar of the
wind ; ' my boat would be dashed to pieces in a
moment, and we would both be drowned.'

' I must reach San Giorgio to-night,' said the
stranger, ' and I will pay thee generously.'

Well, seeing it was the will of heaven and hearing
that he would be well paid, the old fisherman entered
the boat with the stranger and managed to push off
from the shore. What then was his amazement to
find that it was quite easy to guide the boat. The
tempest still raged around him, but the waves seemed

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN 29

to spread themselves out in a smooth pathway before
them.

It was not long, therefore, before they reached
San Giorgio, and there the stranger landed, bidding
the old fisherman wait for him.

Presently the stranger came out of the church again
and with him came a young knight. He was straight
as an arrow, upright as a dart, and his face was very
good to look upon, it was so brave and beautiful.

Both the men entered the boat, and the stranger,
turning to the fisherman, said quietly, ' Now, thou
shalt row us over to San Niccolo di Lido.'

' But how is that possible ? ' cried the old fisherman,
throwing out his hands. ' Even were it fair weather
it would be impossible to row so far with but one oar.'

' It shall be possible for thee,' answered the stranger
calmly, ' and remember thou shalt be paid generously.'

Well, the fisherman looked at the wide stretch of
angry waters and then at the quiet face of the stranger,
and took up his oar again.

' We shall certainly all be drowned,' he said. But
he pushed off once more and set out in the direction of
San Niccolo di Lido.

And just as it had happened before, the waves
spread themselves out smoothly under the little boat,
and the fisherman rowed without the slightest difficulty
until they came to San Niccolo di Lido.

Then both the men got out, again bidding the
fisherman wait for them.

30 LEGENDS OF ITALY

Tliis time they came back with an old man, dressed
in the robes of a bishop. He had a kind, gentle face,
and even to look at him comforted the heart of the
frightened old fisherman.

' Now, row to the gates of the two castles,' said the
stranger, when all three were safely in the boat.

' But that is the open sea,' said the fisherman,
trembling with fear ; ' we shall be certainly over-
whelmed.'

' Row boldly,' said the stranger, ' and fear naught.'

The winds howled and the waves roared, and the
tempest shrieked louder than ever. It seemed im-
possible that a little boat could live in such angry
waters.

And lo ! when they came to the gates of the sea, a
terrible sight met the eyes of the old fisherman.
Sweeping down upon them, full in front, was a huge
ship or galley with all sails set. The ship was
crowded in every corner with black demons whose
shrieks rang even louder than the scream of the
wind.

On and on they came, tearing through the waves,
and the old fisherman fell on his knees and began to
say his prayers, for he thought in another moment
his boat would be swallowed up.

But the stranger and the knight and the old bishop
rose to their feet, and with uplifted hands they calmly
made the Sign of the Cross as the demon ship came
near. Instantly the waters grew still, the wind

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN 31

dropped, and the demon ship disappeared with a
sound like the crack of thunder.

' Now row us back from whence we came,' said the
stranger.

And the trembling old fisherman obeyed, wondering
greatly what all this could mean. One thing he felt
sure of. That demon ship had been on its way to
overwhelm and destroy Venice, and he rejoiced to
think his beloved city was now safe.

So back they went to San Niccolo di Lido, and there
they left the old bishop ; then on to San Giorgio, and
there the brave knight silently landed.

But when the old fisherman rowed back to the
Riva di San Marco, and the stranger was about to
land, he began to bethink himself of the promised
payment.

' Miracles are wonderful things,' he said to himself,
' but I want something more than miracles.'

So he stood with his hat in his hand, and asked the
stranger to pay him as he had promised.

' Thou art right,' said the stranger. ' I must not
forget thee. Thou shalt be well rewarded. Dost
thou know for whom thou hast worked to-night ? I
am Saint Mark, the patron saint of this city. The
young knight we took with us was the brave Saint
George, and the bishop was none other than the good
Saint Nicholas. Together we have saved Venice.
For had it not been for us the demons would utterly
have destroyed her. To-morrow thou shalt go to the

32 LEGENDS OF ITALY

Doge and tell him all thou hast seen, and how Venice
was saved with thy help, and he will reward thee.'

The old fisherman shook his head.

' And how will the Doge know that I speak the
truth ? ' he asked. For though he held Saint Mark in
great reverence, and felt how great an honour it was
for the saint to talk with him, he still felt a little
anxious about the payment.

Then Saint Mark drew a ring off his finger and
handed it to the old fisherman.

' Take this ring,' he said, ' and show it to the Doge,
and tell him I gave it to thee. Then should he still
doubt thy word, bid him look in the treasury of San
Marco, and he will find the ring is no longer there.'

So the old fisherman took the ring and thanked the
Saint. And the next day he went as early as possible
to the Doge and told him the whole story of what had
happened, showing him the ring.

The Doge sent quickly to search in the treasury for
the Saint's ring, which was always kept there, but
they found it had disappeared. So they were sure
that it was Saint Mark himself who had given it to the
old fisherman. Whereupon there was a great thanks-
giving service held in Venice, and a solemn procession
went to each of the three churches, where the bones
of the saints were enshrined.

The old fisherman was not only rewarded with gold,
but a certain privilege was granted to him. He alone
was allowed the right of selling the silver sand from

S. MARK AND THE FISHERMAN 33

the shore of the Lido. So he grew richer than any
fisherman in Venice, but in spite of his riches he always
lived in his little boat under the white marble bridge.
And when he died the city rulers ordered that little
marble picture to be made, with the boats carved
beneath it, in memory of the old fisherman who had
helped to save Venice that terrible night from the
vengeance of the demon crew.

DOMENICA

NOT many miles outside the city of Florence, in the
fertile valley of the Arno, there is a little village called
Bagno a Ripoli. Here, many, many years ago, there
lived in one of the poorest of the village houses a little
girl called Domenica. Her father and mother were
poor contadini or peasants, who worked in the fields
all day, and the little Domenica early learned to take
care of herself during the long hours she was left
alone. Her mother knew it was not likely she would
come to any harm, although she was but five years old,
for she was a wise little maid and seldom got into any
mischief. She would play about the house or go out
to gather flowers in the fields when the sun was not too
hot, and when she was hungry she knew where to get
the slice of good black bread and handful of fruit
which had been put aside for her dinner.

Domenica never thought about being lonely. Her
head was always full of busy thoughts and plans.
And then, too, the picture of the Madonna and Gesu
Bambino always seemed to keep her company. It
hung high up on the wall of the little room, and the
lamp that hung before it threw a faint light upon the
mother's face.

DOMENICA 35

How Domenica wished that the picture hung lower
down that she might see it better. Even when she
climbed on the old wooden chair and stood on tiptoe,
she could not see it clearly. The picture was blackened
by smoke and age, and the light was so bad. She could
see the sweet smile on the Madonna's face as she
looked downwards, but the rest of the picture was
dark, and Domenica could only just trace the faintest
outline of the Holy Child.

But how she loved that picture! The Madonna
and the Baby were her friends and companions
all day long. Kneeling upon the wooden chair,
she would tell all the thoughts that came into her
head to the gentle mother, for she was never tired
of listening, and always smiled so kindly and always
understood.

Every morning the first thing Domenica loved to do
was to wander out into the fields and gather flowers
for her Madonna. There was a little shelf below the
picture which she could just reach, and there, in an old
cracked jug, she placed her offering. She was very
particular which kind of flowers she gave to the
Madonna, and if possible she always gathered a bunch
of the small pink-tipped daisies. They were the
flowers she loved best herself, and she was sure the
Gesu Bambino must love them too, just as all babies
did. They did not make a very grand show, for their
stalks were often very short and they would not hold
up their heads, but the Madonna knew the ways of

36 LEGENDS OF ITALY

daisies and would not need any excuses made for their
waywardness.

It was just the one drawback to Domenica's happi-
ness that the picture should hang so high, and every
morning she told the Madonna how hard it was for her.

' My Lady,' she said, looking up with folded hands,
' thou art holding the Gesu Bambino in thy arms
I know, but I cannot see Him at all. Thou art so
kind and good, and thou knowest how much I long to
see His face. Wilt thou not some day bend down
and show Him to me, if I am very good ? '

Her face grew very wistful as she prayed this prayer
over and over again. It almost seemed as if the
Madonna never meant to show her the Baby, for she
never came nearer, and the shadow over the Bambino
never lifted.

Domenica had gathered her daisies as usual one
morning, and was playing quietly by herself in the
little room, when a gentle knock sounded at the
door.

She trotted across the floor and opened the door a
very little way, and then peeped out to see who was
there. She knew that it was not wise to open the
door too far and allow any stranger to come in. A
poor, tired-looking woman was standing on the door-
step, and wrapped in her old shawl was a little bundle
which Domenica was sure must be a baby.

' May I come in and rest awhile ? ' the woman asked,
and she smiled at the little eager face peeping through

DOMENICA 37

the half-open door. ' The sun is very hot and I cannot
find shade in which to rest.'

' Come in, come in,' said Domenica, opening the door
quite wide. ' Come in and rest.'

She dragged forward the wooden chair and smiled
a shy smile of welcome as the poor woman sat wearily
down and began to undo the little bundle wrapped in
her shawl. Domenica loved babies, and she stood
watching with intense interest while the shawl was
being unfolded. Then the woman spoke again.

' We have come a long weary way,' she said, ' and
have tasted nothing to-day. I would be very grateful
for a mouthful of bread, and the baby too is hungry.
For the love of the Gesu Bambino, little maid, give us
something to eat.'

' You shall have my dinner,' said Domenica joyfully.
' How glad I am that I have not eaten it yet.'

She ran to the cupboard and reached down the
thick slice of black bread, and brought too the bunch
of sweet white grapes, which had been set aside for
her by her careful mother that morning.

' It is all I have,' said Domenica ; ' but how I wish
there was some milk for the bambino.'

' Thou hast given us all thy dinner, little one,' said
the woman very gently ; ' thou couldst not do more.
But if I might have a drink of cool water from the
well, it would do instead of milk.'

The copper water-pot was heavy to carry, but
Domenica struggled bravely with it down the path to

38 LEGENDS OF ITALY

the spring close by, and before very long came panting
back with as much of the water as had not been spilt
by the way. She put the pot down on the floor and
then stood upright to take a long breath.

But what was it that had made the little room sud-
denly so bright, brighter even than the sunshine out-
side ? Domenica gazed at the mother and child. A
soft, bright light shone round the mother's head, and a
still brighter light made a circle round the head of the
sleeping baby. Domenica caught her breath almost
with a sob of fear, but the mother stretched out her
hand and drew the little one close to her knee.

' Dost thou not know me, little maid ? ' she
asked.

And Domenica, looking up, was afraid no longer.
It was her own Madonna who was looking down so
kindly at her.

' I have come to grant thy prayer and to show thee
my Baby,' said the gentle voice again. ' But first I
had to prove if thou wert worthy. Thou hast given
thine all for the love of the Gesu Bambino, and now
thou shalt look upon His face.'

Then the Mother folded back the shawl, and
Domenica, with hands clasped tight together, bent
over and looked with all her heart in her eyes.

' He is more beautiful even than I thought He could
be,' she whispered, ' but, my Lady, tell me why He is
so small.'

' He is small because the love for Him in thy heart

DOMENICA 39

is still but small,' said the Mother gently. ' As thy
love grows bigger, He will grow too.'

Domenica knelt down and pressed closer to the
Madonna's knee.

' Now that thou hast indeed come, thou wilt not
take the Bambino away again,' she said. ' Or if thou
must go, take me with thee that I may be always near
Him.'

But the Madonna shook her head.

' I cannot take thee now,' she said, ' and I must not
stay. But some day thou shalt see Him again. If
the love grows ever greater in thy heart, if thou wilt
learn to do His work here, to care for His little ones,
the poor, the sick and the sorrowful, for His dear sake,
then thou wilt always belong to Him, and by-and-bye,
when He is ready, He will return and take thee home
where thou wilt ever be near Him.'

The tears had gathered in Domenica's brown eyes,
and for a moment everything looked dim. Then she
quickly raised her hand to brush the tears away, that
she might look once more on the face of the little
sleeping Child.

But the room was dim again. There was no one
sitting in the old wooden chair by which she knelt.
High above her the lamp cast its light on the pictured
Madonna, and the heavy shadow lay dark as ever over
the outline of the Gesu Bambino.

Domenica knelt on there, gazing at the empty chair,
the tears all dried, and her eyes shining like two stars.

40 LEGENDS OF ITALY

She had seen the Christ-child, and that vision would
never again fade from her heart.

In after years, when she told this wonderful story,
people asked her reverently to tell them what He
looked like as He lay upon His Mother's knee. But
Domenica would only shake her head and say she
could not tell. There were no earthly words that could
describe the beauty of that face. But perhaps the
look on her own face, and the wonderful light that came
into her eyes when she spoke of the vision, told more
than words could have done.

She grew to be a great saint, this little Domenica,
and in the convent where she went to serve her Lord
they called her ' The heavenly sister.' Then when
her work on earth was done she saw once more the
vision of the Lord she loved. Not this time did He
come as a tiny, helpless Baby, but in the fulness of His
strength, just as the love for Him had grown great in
her heart. Did she know Him again ? Ah ! yes.
The look that she had seen in the face of the Gesu
Bambino had never faded from her memory, and she
knew Him at once, knew that He had come to fulfil
the promise made on that sunny morning years ago
when He lay a helpless Baby in His Mother's arms—
' He will return and take thee home where thou wilt
ever be near Him.'

SHE-HAD-
SELLN-THE,

CHRIST
CHILD--

THE LEGEND OF THE CASTELLANO

THE Count of Castellano sat in the banqueting-hall
of his castle thinking deeply. He was growing old.
Very soon, he knew, his life must come to an end, and
the thought of that end made him feel uneasy and
afraid. All the wicked deeds he had committed
seemed to rise up and stalk past him like grim ghosts,
and they were so black and terrible that he hid his
face and dared not look at them.

' We are the poor you have robbed,' cried a crowd
of grey ghosts as they swept wailing by.

' We are the wicked passions you have allowed to
dwell in your heart,' shrieked an evil-looking band.

' We are your lost days, lost opportunities, and all
the good deeds you have left undone,' sighed a train of
sorrowful spectres.

It was all quite true. He had riches and all that
heart could wish, but what good had he ever done ?
How often had his gentle wife implored him to repent.
But the more she urged him the worse he had become.
He knew that the demons were rejoicing to think they
had his soul in safe keeping.

The door of the banqueting-hall was cautiously
opened and a servant looked in.

42 LEGENDS OF ITALY

' Signer,' he said, ' a holy father, on his way from
Rome, begs for hospitality to-night.'

' Let him come in,' said the Castellano, much to the
surprise of the servant who had scarcely dared to bring
the message.

The priest entered and the old Count received him
courteously, and ordered meat and wine to be placed
before him.

' I have done but few good deeds in my life,' he
added ; ' I can at least show hospitality to one of God's
servants.'

Then he began to tell the priest all that he had been
thinking about as he sat there alone.

The priest sighed deeply, and looked earnestly at the
old man.

' What will be the use of all your gold, your splendid
castle and your feasts and pleasures, when the demons
come to carry off your soul ? ' he asked.

' I would it were not now too late to repent,' said the
Castellano, gazing with troubled eyes at the earnest
face of the holy father.

' It is never too late,' answered the priest. ' Make
your confession now, and I will pray God to have
mercy.'

But as the good father listened to the long
list of black sins he was almost too horrified to
speak.

' Indeed, you have but little time in which to repent
for such a long, wicked, wasted life,' he said at length.

THE LEGEND OF THE CASTELLANO 43

* But perhaps if you do penance for two whole years
God may have mercy on your soul.'

The Count shook his head when he heard those
words.

' How can I do penance for two years ? ' he asked,
' I who cannot pass one day without committing
some sin ? I will not begin by making a promise to
God which I know it will be impossible for me to
keep.'

' Well, your sins are certainly grievous,' said the
priest, ' but perhaps the good God will be satisfied
with a year's penance.'

' Neither is that possible,' answered the Count.
' A year would be a long, long trial. My penitence
would not last half that time. No, it is no use giving
me a month or even a week. I am not strong enough
to trust myself. I can but promise to do penance for
one whole night, and if that is no use, I must give up
all hope of pardon.'

Then the priest saw that the Count was truly in
earnest, and he longed that his soul should be saved.

' God alone can give true penitence,' he said, ' and
with Him time is as nothing. Go, then, to the little
ruined chapel which I passed on my way hither, and
spend the night in prayer before the altar. But see
that nothing draws you away or interferes with your
prayers. For this one night you must belong only to
God.'

The Count rose with a lightened heart and prepared

44 LEGENDS OF ITALY

to set out for the little chapel. He was strong in his
purpose to pray for pardon for his sins.

But as he knelt in the chapel saying the prayers
which had not passed his lips since he was a little
child, the demons, who were never far off from him,
gnashed their teeth with rage and anger.

' What is all this ? ' cried the chief diavolo. ' Here
we have worked for years and waited for this man's
soul, and now at last he seeks to cheat us of what surely
is our own possession.'

'Oh! leave him to me,' laughed a little demon;
' I have always known how to tempt him, and I will
not fail now.'

' Be off then ! ' said the chief diavolo, ' and do not
rest until you have done your work.'

So the little demon made haste, and took the form
of the Castellano's sister and came hurrying into the
chapel where the Count knelt before the altar.

' Brother, brother, help, help ! ' cried the demon.
' Our castle is surrounded by enemies. They have
spoiled all your lands. Your servants have fled,
and your wife and daughters are helpless in the
castle.'

' My sister,' answered the Castellano, ' I cannot
come. I dare not break my word to God. I have
promised to spend this night in penitence in the chapel,
and here I must stay.'

' But, brother,' cried the demon, ' do you not care
for your wife and children ? Do you not mind that

THE LEGEND OF THE CASTELLANO 45

your castle will soon be in the hands of your enemy
and all your riches gone ? '

' My gold and silver, my castle and lands are nothing
compared to my honour,' answered the Count, ' and
as to my wife and children, God will protect them.'

The demon saw it was no use, and returned to his
master very sad and crestfallen.

' I can do nothing with the man,' he said gloomily.

' You are but a useless little diavolo,' said his
master, ' and I shall no longer send you on earth to do
my work.'

' Then let me try,' said another demon eagerly ; ' I
have great cunning which never fails.'

So the cunning demon made it appear as if a great
fire was raging in the castle, and the glare of the
flames lighted up the windows of the little chapel.
Then he called loudly to the Caste] lano to escape,
telling him that the castle was on fire and the flames
were spreading.

But the Count only answered quietly, ' I am in
God's hands and He will allow no harm to come near
me.'

Then the red glare died away and the Castellano
went on with his prayers.

The demon looked on in despair. Soon it would be
morning, and when day broke the Count's soul would
be saved unless he could be forced before then to leave
the chapel.

So as a last hope the demon took the form of a

46 LEGENDS OF ITALY

priest and came solemnly into the chapel. A little
diavolo walked in front of him, pretending to be a
server and swinging his censer of incense.

The demon touched the kneeling Count on the
shoulder.

' It is time for the morning Mass,' he said, ' and you
are too great a sinner to stay here. Begone ere I
begin the service.'

' I know I have been a great sinner,' said the
Castellano, ' but since God has promised to pardon me,
you need not seek to thrust me out.'

At these words the whole crowd of listening demons
gave a howl of rage, and rushed in upon the Count to
drag him out of the chapel by force.

But what was that faint light in the east, and what
sound was that which stilled the demons' cries ?
Surely it was dawn and the little chapel bell was ring-
ing out the Ave Maria. The day had come, and with
the darkness the whole evil crew must flee before the
light.

So the Castellano had saved his soul, but there he
knelt on silently, never moving. And when, later
on, the real priest entered, he found the Count still
kneeling there with a peaceful, happy smile upon his
face. The pardon he had prayed for had been
granted, and he would never more fall into the hands
of the evil demons, for the angels had carried his soul
safely home to God.

STELLA MARTS

BLUE and still lie the waters of the Bay of Naples,
blue as the sky above, with only a dainty ripple on their
surface, where the summer wind comes wooing from
the land and the water trembles at its kiss. The little
fishing-boats that busily flit to and fro look like gay
butterflies enjoying life in the sunshine and warmth.
But the waters are not always quiet and blue. Sudden
storms sweep down and change the smiling bay into a
black swirl of angry waves, rising mountains high, and
hissing under the lash of the furious wind. Alas for
the little fishing-boats then when night comes on, and
there is no friendly light to guide them to home and
shelter, nothing but the angry glow of the fiery
mountain, shining red against the stormy sky.

Then it is that the fishermen, huddled together in fear,
and driven before the lashing wind, send up a prayer
to their Madonna Stella Maris, star of the sea. Her
picture it is which hangs in the convent church high on
the hill above, and they feel sure she will protect them
in their danger and guide them safely home. Has
she not always been their friend ? How could one
doubt that, knowing the old story of her wonderful
appearing ?

48 LEGENDS OF ITALY

Long years ago, before the monastery was built,
the hillside was a waste and desolate place. It was
said that evil spirits had their dwelling there, dwarfs
and mountain gnomes, and imps that worked mischief
to peaceable folk. No one dared pass by that way,
especially after dark, and yet, strange to say, night
after night a beacon fire was lighted on that wild
hillside.

It could not be the work of evil spirits, neither
could it have been lighted by human hands, but
every night the light shone up, and shot steadily
over the bay, warning the boats to steer clear of the
peril of the rocks below.

The grateful sailors, steering their course by the
friendly light, thanked heaven for the kindly aid, but
no one dared go near the spot to see what the light
might be.

Then it happened that one dark night, when a
company of fishermen were drawing in their nets, full
of the silvery fish which shone in the light of the
friendly beacon, one of the men, looking up, gave
a great cry of fear and astonishment.

There, upon the path of light which shone from the
hill over the dark waters of the bay, came a wondrous
vision. It was the Madonna herself, clothed in shining
garments of light, coming towards their little boat.
Her eyes looked kindly upon them with the mother-
love that ever fills her heart, and she smiled as she
drew near.

STELLA MARIS 49

' My children,' she said, ' you knew not that the
guiding light from yonder hill was lighted by me. A
mother must always care for her children in peril.
But to-night I come to bid you do me a service.
Where that light burns nightly on the wild hillside
there is an old well, and there hidden away is an
image of myself. Go, therefore, to the bishop and
bid him search, and place it in a safe spot where my
children may do it honour.'

Then the light faded, and the Madonna vanished
from their sight.

The fishermen gazed at one another in trembling
fear.

' Has the spell been cast upon us ? ' they asked.
' What can this vision of the night mean ? ' and they
were too frightened to speak of it to any one, and
never once thought of going to the bishop, as the
Madonna had directed.

But the next night again the vision came to them,
and again they were told what they must do, but still
they doubted and did nothing.

Then on the third night the Madonna appeared, not
as the gentle mother, but as the Queen of Heaven,
sternly reproving them for their disobedience.

This time they did not dare to disobey the vision,
but when morning broke they left the boat and
journeyed with all speed to the good bishop.

' But who will believe our story ? ' asked one, as
they climbed the steep road and pushed on their way.

D

50 LEGENDS OF ITALY

' Even if the bishop receives us he will think we are
mad when we tell our tale.'

' Better that than risk once more the frown of the
Madonna,' said another.

' We have only to do as she bade us, and leave the
rest,' said a third.

But when they reached the bishop's house it almost
seemed as if they had been expected. No one asked
what was their business there, but they were treated
with great courtesy and taken at once into the good
bishop's presence.

' Ye are welcome,' said the bishop, when the three
rough, poorly clad fishermen had knelt to receive his
blessing. ' Tell me your errand quickly. It has been
shown to me in a dream that ye would come as bearers
of a heavenly message, so speak without fear.'

Then the fishermen, one by one, took up the tale
and told of the lonely watch on the dark waters, of the
friendly beacon which shone from the deserted hill,
and of the wondrous vision that had come to them
over the silent sea.

' Never before have our eyes beheld such beauty,'
they said. ' Her garments were of woven light and
her eyes like the stars. Her voice sounded in our ears
as the music of the distant church bells whispering
over the sea to welcome us home when our nightly toil
is o'er. At first we thought it must only be a dream,
but for three nights now we have seen the vision, and
dare no longer disobey her command.'

STELLA MARTS 51

The bishop asked no more, but at once made ready
to set out. He bade his priests robe themselves, and
with the fishermen as guides the procession started.
Chanting the psalms as they went, they wended their
way over the rough road and climbed the wild, deserted
hill, until they came to the spot from whence the
beacon had shone, night after night. There, as the
Madonna had said, they found an old ruined well, and
hidden away at the bottom was the beautiful picture
of the Madonna, which now hangs in the convent
chapel.

This is the tale of long, long ago which the fishermen
repeat to each other to-day. Never again has the
Madonna been seen in the lonely night watches,
coming upon the golden path across the dark waters.
But the fishermen look up to the light shining from the
monastery on the hill, where her picture still hangs,
and the thought of her beautiful face comforts and
cheers them in their peril. * Our lady, Star of the
Sea,' they still call her, in memory of the friendly
beacon that was once lighted there to guide poor
mariners home.

THE ANGEL AND THE DIAVOLO

* WHERE shall we go to-day ? ' asked the Saint.

' Oh, take me to some place that has a story,' said
the child. ' I want a new story to-day.'

It was early morning in Venice, and the Saint and
the child came hand in hand out of the dim old
church into the pearly light of the great square.
Every morning they wandered together through the
narrow byways, before the bustle and business of
the day began. Sometimes they went to watch the
sunrise over the lagunes, sometimes they found their
way to the old mercato, where the heavily laden boats
brought in their heaped-up treasures of yellow pump-
kins, purple artichokes, pale-green salads, shining piles
of crimson cherries, and little, long-shaped baskets with
strawberries peeping out of the narrow necks. But
wherever they went they would find some curious tale,
or legend, which the Saint would tell to the listening
child.

Slowly now they turned their steps out of the great
square, underneath the dim archway of the Clock
Tower, into the narrow street beyond. They always
walked slowly, there was so much to see, and those
who hurry, miss much in Venice. Then at last, after

THE ANGEL AND THE DIAVOLO 53

many bewildering turns leading over as many little
bridges, they came out opposite an old palace, which
stood at the corner of the two broad waterways.
Every window, every niche was reflected clear below
as if in a mirror, and the white marble of the sculp-
tured figure which was let into the house above had
its twin in the green water below.

' Here is our story,' said the Saint. ' Tell me,
child, what do you see carved above that window ? '

' It is a beautiful angel,' said the child, looking
across at the marble figure with its clasped hands and
peacefully folded wings. Then she looked up into the
sweet face of the Saint and waited eagerly for the story.

The Saint smiled down on the listening child.
' It is only a strange old legend,' she said, ' which most
people have forgotten. But I will tell you why the
angel is there.

'Many, many years ago, a clever lawyer of Venice
lived in that house. He was known all over the city as
the wisest and most learned of men, and was very rich
and powerful. But although men praised him for
his wisdom, they would always end by shaking their
heads and lowering their voices when they spoke of
him. For it was said there was no man as wicked as
he in all the countryside. Strange tales were told of
wild and wicked deeds done in the old house, and
gradually one by one his servants left him, frightened
by his evil ways. At last the lawyer was left all alone
in the great house, and never a friend came nigh him.

54 LEGENDS OF ITALY

' " He has sold his soul to the Evil One," said the
citizens in whispers one to another. And even as they
spoke they started and looked round swiftly over their
shoulders, half afraid lest the clever lawyer or the
Diavolo might be standing there listening to their
words.

' Now it was very uncomfortable to live in a great
house all alone, and the lawyer did not like it. There
was no one to wait on him or prepare his meals, and he
began to think it would be better to mend his ways,
and persuade some of the old servants to come back.

' Just as this thought entered his head one evening,
the door of the room where he was sitting was pushed
open. With a bound there sprang into the room a
large furry animal, which stood grinning and chatter-
ing before him in the most friendly manner. It was a
very large black monkey, as tall as a child and as
strong as a man, and as it gambolled about and uttered
its queer chattering cries, the lawyer laughed more
heartily than he had done for years.

'"Come," he said, "here is a merry companion
arrived just when he is most needed."

' The monkey grinned as if he understood his welcome
and began to make himself quite at home. In a short
time he learned to do anything which the lawyer
taught him. His hands were so deft and his head so
intelligent that there seemed no end to his usefulness.
He could sweep the rooms, light the fires, cook the
food, and indeed do more than all the trained servants

THE ANGEL AND THE DIAVOLO 55

had ever done. Wherever the lawyer went he boasted
of his wonderful monkey, and was never tired of telling
stories of its clever and amusing ways.

' But the fact was that this monkey was none other
than the Diavolo himself. He had made up his mind
to come and live with the lawyer that he might be
quite sure of securing his soul. For there was still
some good in the lawyer, and the Evil One thought it
wiser to be always near him, ready to stamp it out.

' Now, although the lawyer had often and often
grieved his good angel and driven him away, still the
angel watched over him from afar, and longed to help
and protect him. Time after time he had tried and
failed, until it seemed quite hopeless. But now when
he saw with sad, grieved eyes how the Evil One, in the
form of the monkey, was always present, he made up
his mind to try once more.

' So one evening the good angel took the form of one
of the lawyer's friends, and went to call at the old
lonely house.

' The lawyer was somewhat surprised when the visitor
came in. It was many a long day since any friend had
cared to cross his door. Strangely enough, since the
monkey had come, people seemed to avoid him more
than ever.

'"I hear you have a wonderful servant," said the
angel visitor, after they had talked together for a
little. " I would like to hear all about him."

' Nothing pleased the lawyer more than to talk of his

56 LEGENDS OF ITALY

strange pet, and he began at once to tell of his clever
ways.

' "He would seem to be a most wonderful animal,"
said the visitor. " I would greatly like to see him."

' "There is nothing easier," said the lawyer in high
good-humour. "I will call him at once."

'And going to the door he shouted, "Babbuino,
Babbuino, come hither, thou rascal, and show thyself."

' But the Diavolo knew all too well who it was who
had come in the guise of a friend to sup with his master.
Instead of running as usual at the lawyer's call, he
had fled away with all haste, and hidden himself in
the furthest corner of the old house.

' " Babbuino, Babbuino ! " called the lawyer again.
Then he began to grow angry, and stamped his foot in
a great rage.

' " Let us go and look for him," said the angel quietly.

'So together the lawyer and his guest went and
searched each room carefully, but no signs of the
missing monkey could they find. At last, however, in
a little dark cupboard they saw a crouching form, and
the angel went forward to touch it.

' But as soon as the Diavolo caught sight of the angel
he gave a great cry and sprang headlong against the
outer wall of the room. At his touch the wall gave
way, stones rattled down, and a great hole was made.
Then, in the midst of a cloud of smoke and dust, the
Evil One disappeared.

* The lawyer looked on in terror and amazement, and

THE ANGEL AND THE DIAVOLO 57

then turned to his visitor. But the visitor too was
gone, and instead there stood an angel looking at him
with sad, pleading eyes.

' "I have returned once more to try to save thee,"
he said ; " see that this last time be not in vain."

' Then he spread his great white wings, and he too
flew out into the starry night.

' The lawyer trembled from head to foot, and fell upon
his knees, thanking heaven for his deliverance from the
wiles of the Evil One. And as he grew calmer he
prayed earnestly that his good angel might never
leave him, but evermore might guard and bless him.

' So happy times returned to the old corner palace.
Servants and friends came back to the lawyer, and evil
whisperings ceased.

' The hole in the wall was built up with new stones,
but lest it should be forgotten the lawyer caused the
figure of an angel to be carved in white marble and
placed over the spot.

' There through all the years the figure of the angel
has stood with folded hands and peaceful, happy face.
There it still stands to-day, silently teaching the old
lesson that good shall triumph in the end, telling the
happy tale "of evil conquered and wrong made
right." '

LITTLE LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA

IN the lonely country places of Italy, where the people
live a struggling life of toil, where comforts are few
and hardships are many, the poor often tell to each
other the stories of our Blessed Lord and the Madonna.
These stories never fail to bring comfort and cheer to
their weary hearts, for they love to remember that the
Lord was just as poor as they, and that His dear
Mother knew what it meant to toil and care for her
Child. It seems to lighten their burdens and make
them more content, when they think that the King of
Heaven once shared their lot.

And sometimes when the children complain that
they have only lupin beans to eat, and say that lupins
leave them just as hungry as they were before, the
mother will tell them this old legend, which the
children never tire of hearing.

We all know how the Gesu Bambino was born in a
poor stable with no royal servants to guard Him, al-
though He was King of Heaven. But we must remem-
ber, that He had something better than royal servants.
He had His own dear Mother, and she was the best
guard of all. She needed to be brave and watchful,
for very soon danger drew near. The wicked King of

LITTLE LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA 59

that country sent out his cruel soldiers to kill the new-
born Child, and the guards were soon on their way to
Bethlehem to do his bidding. Then the Madonna
wrapped the precious Bambino in her shawl, and set
out swiftly and secretly by night, to save Him from
King Herod's fury.

Early in the morning, when the faint light was
beginning to dawn over the hills, and the olive-trees
showed silver in the morning dew, the poor Madonna
sat down to rest by the wayside. She was very weary,
for she had walked all night. Her heart too was
heavy with fear, though her precious burden felt
light.

So far she had escaped, but even now as she rested
she heard the tramp of feet close by, and saw a com-
pany of soldiers wending their way down the long
white road. It was useless to think of hiding, for
they must already have seen her, and it was useless, too,
to think of flight, for the men would so easily overtake
her. There was nothing to do but to sit still quietly
and pray to the good God for help. So she did not
move or start, but gently and carefully she laid the
Bambino in her lap and covered Him with her
apron, tying the corners together to hide what lay
there.

' Sleep, Little One, sleep,' she whispered. ' Thy
Mother will see that no harm comes near Thee. Only
sleep.'

Then up came the guards heated and angry with

60 LEGENDS OF ITALY

their fruitless search. Very roughly they spoke to
her.

' Hast thou seen a woman and child pass by this
way ? ' they asked. ' Answer truly or it will be the
worse for thee.'

' I have seen no one pass by,' said the Madonna,
lifting her gentle eyes to their scowling faces.

' What hast thou got in thy apron ? ' shouted one of
the men.

' Gran' Signer,' she answered, and by the way she
said those words it sounded as if she meant that her
apron was full of grain. But what she truly said was
'the great lord.' Then one of the soldiers rudely
caught at a corner of her apron and shook it. And lo !
a stream of golden grain trickled out.

The men seemed satisfied then that this was but a
poor peasant woman who could tell them nothing,
so they turned back grumbling to seek some other
road.

The Madonna bent her head over the sleeping Child
and thanked God for the miracle of the grain, and then
she once more lifted Him in her arms and set out on
her way. But she had not gone far before she again
heard the tramp of soldiers' feet, and turning aside she
hurried through a field of lupins. The lupin beans
were dry and ready to be cut, and their tall stalks hid
her as she passed. She stepped as lightly as she could
and held her breath as she sped on noiselessly, holding
her Treasure in her arms. But these lupin beans were

LITTLE LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA 61

senseless things, and instead of keeping very still and
quiet as she passed, they rattled so loudly and made
such a busy, bustling noise that it was a wonder the
soldiers did not hear.

The Madonna stopped, trembling, to listen, but the
tramp of feet grew fainter, and she knew that the
pursuers had passed on and the danger was over for
the time. Then she turned back to the field of lupins
and shook her head over the noisy beans.

' Could ye not be silent when the Gesu Bambino
was in danger ? ' she said. ' Henceforth when men
eat of you, ye shall not satisfy their hunger, and this
shall be your punishment.'

So that is why the lupin beans leave ever a hungry,
empty feeling within us.

But the Madonna journeyed on, and when the sun
was high in the heavens and she was faint with heat,
again she heard the sound of pursuing feet. She was
passing through a field just then where the peasants
were sowing their corn, and the kind people seeing
her tired face came round her and asked if they could
help her on her way.

' I have a great favour to ask,' she said. ' A guard
of soldiers will presently come up, and should they ask
if ye have seen a woman and child pass by this way,
only answer, I pray you, that one passed by when ye
were sowing your corn.'

The men were puzzled, but promised to do as she
asked. And lo ! when she had crossed the field, the

62 LEGENDS OF ITALY

corn in the furrows began to sprout, the green blades
shot up, and the ears of corn appeared, swelled and
ripened before their eyes, so that by the time the
soldiers arrived the men were in the midst of the
harvest.

' Have ye seen a woman and child pass by this way ? '
shouted the soldiers.

The peasants stopped their cutting and looked up,
answering quietly just as the Madonna had bade
them.

' We saw a woman and child pass by when we were
sowing this corn,' they said.

' What use is that to us ? ' stormed the soldiers.
' Keep thy foolish jests for those that are in the
humour for such things.'

' It is no jest,' said one of the reapers, ' we only speak
the truth.'

' Well,' said the soldiers to each other, ' these men
are too stupid to deceive us. It is no use going on.
We must search in some other direction.'

So the Madonna and the Bambino escaped unhurt,
for the good God has many ways of saving His children.

The poor Madonna ! She had but a sad, anxious life
to the very end, and even now one can see the traces
of her tears. It was when she stood all trembling and
weeping beneath the Cross that the swallows, swooping
and darting overhead, longed to comfort and help her.
Even the birds were sorrowful at that sight, and they
flew closer and closer, circling round and round until

LITTLE LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA 63

at last they swept her breast with their soft feathers as
they passed. The great tears were dropping slowly
from her eyes, and fell on the upturned breasts of the
little birds, and wherever a tear fell the feathers turned
from black to pure white. And so the swallows have
worn their white badge ever since in memory of the
comfort they longed to give.

THE LITTLE COUNTESS

THERE lived in Venice in the year 1288 a nobleman
and his wife, who had one little daughter. They had
only this one child, and they did not wish for any more.
They thanked heaven for the precious little daughter,
who was dearer to them than anything else in the
world. She was fairer than any child in Venice, a
little white lily with a heart of gold. Wherever she
went people were gladdened by the sight of her fair
face, but the sunshine she carried with her shone
from her golden heart which was so kind and loving
and true.

There was one thing that the little Countess loved
above all others, and that was to go to the daily service
in the church close by. At first she could only go
when her mother took her on Sundays and saints' days,
but when she grew a little older, she would often go by
herself. Every one in Venice knew the little Countess,
so she was quite safe, even when she went out alone.

Now the church which the child loved was on the
other side of the canal, and there was no bridge across.
So those who wished to go over were obliged to take
a boat at the ferry. But the boatmen were always
ready to row the little maiden across.

THE LITTLE COUNTESS 65

After a while the nobleman began to think that his
daughter went too often to church. He was glad she
was such a good child, but he did not want her to
become a saint. He meant her to marry some rich,
great lord, and live a gay life in the world. He was
afraid that if she went to church so much she would
think too much of heaven and too little of earth.

So one day he told her she must no longer go each
morning to church.

The little Countess had always been as good and
obedient as a child could be, but now she told her
father that she could not obey him. God was her
Father too, and she must try to please Him. The
father did not wish to seem harsh, for he loved his little
daughter dearly, so he said no more. But that very
day he went to the boatmen at the ferry and told them
they were on no account to row the little Countess
across the water when she wanted to go to church.
He slipped some gold pieces into their hands to help
them to remember his command, and they promised
faithfully they would do as he directed.

Early the next morning the child came to the ferry
as usual, and was going to slip into the first boat when
the boatman told her he could not take her across.
She went to the next boat, but there, too, the boatman
said the same. One by one they refused to take her
across the canal.

The little Countess gazed at the men with her
innocent, questioning eyes. She wondered what it

E

66 LEGENDS OF ITALY

could mean. But the men looked shamefacedly
away.

For one moment her lips began to tremble and her
eyes filled with tears, but then she wiped the tears
quickly away and smiled as happily as ever.

Stepping down to the side of the canal, she took off
her little blue apron and laid it upon the water. Then
quite fearlessly she stepped down upon it. The boat-
men started forward, but the child was in no danger.
Not only did the apron float like a boat, but it
began to be wafted gently across the canal, until it
landed the little Countess safely on the other side
The boatmen stood looking on in amazement while
the child quietly entered the church.

The story of that wonderful crossing on the frail
little boat was soon told all over Venice, and the
people talked in reverent tones of the child-saint who
dwelt among them. The young nobles begged for her
hand in marriage when she should be old enough, and
her father found that he could choose from among the
richest and noblest of the land to wed his little daughter.

But God had chosen something better than earthly
honours for the little Countess. Before very long His
messenger came to carry her across the dark river of
death to the golden city of heaven. She was not at
all afraid to go. Just as gladly and with as perfect a
trust as she had stepped upon that frail little boat
to be carried across to God's house, she now set out to
go to the heavenly city.

THE LITTLE COUNTESS 67

All Venice mourned for the little Countess, and they
buried her in the church she loved so well. In after
years mothers, carrying their babies in their arms,
would often go and pray by the tomb of the little
saint and ask her to protect their little ones and save
them from the perils of the water, just as the good God
had protected and saved her, when she was a child.

PAHT II
STORIES OF ITALY

• •• K

,
-• .,.,.i»t-

STELLANTE

IN the long-ago days, when Venice was as rich as she
was beautiful, there lived in one of her marble palaces
a great and powerful merchant. Year after year he
had heaped up his riches until the people said he had
more gold than any one else in the city, and that he
cared for nothing else but the pleasure of making
money. But there they were wrong, for there was
one thing the merchant loved almost better than his
gold, and that was his only son, Bartolo.

Bartolo was very different from his father, and in
many ways was a great disappointment to the old
merchant-prince. The child never seemed to have any
sense of the value of money. Give him a handful of
pennies, and instead of saving them up they would be
all gone before an hour had passed. It was always the
same story.

' Such a poor old beggar asked alms of me at the
church door, my father, and he gave me such a goodly
blessing for but two small coins. And then I found
the little Beppino weeping since his only penny had
slipped through his fingers and rolled plump into the
canal. Thou wouldst not have left him uncomforted,
and besides, his thanks were worth many pennies.'

72 STORIES OF ITALY

' Thou art but a fool,' growled his father. ' Blessings
and thanks indeed ! Much good may they do thee,
and far may they go towards filling thy empty
purse.'

But in spite of many scoldings Bartolo* could never
learn to hoard his money or refuse to help those who
asked for his aid. Even when he grew to be a young
man of twenty, it was ever the same.

' It is now time that thou shouldst learn to make
money, as well as to spend it,' said his father one day.
' I shall send thee forthwith on a trial trip in one of
my merchant ships. See, here are three hundred gold
pieces with which thou shalt trade. They are not
thine own but given thee on trust, and thou shalt not
lend them or give them away, but shalt bring back to
me something in exchange. Look to it that thou
prove worthy of my trust.'

Bartolo took the money gladly and promised to do
all that his father had said. Many a time had he
watched the great ships spread their sails and ride
gallantly out to sea, and often had he followed them
with longing eyes as they swept along the waterway.
But now he, too, would go sailing off towards those
distant lands of which he had so often dreamed.

All was new and strange and wonderful to him as
Venice was left behind, and he began his first voyage
on the green sea. How eagerly he looked forward to
the time when they should reach the far-off countries
where he was to see such wonders and trade with his

STELLANTE 73

father's gold. But the ships had not sailed many
days before an island came in sight, and when they
reached it the captain sent a boatload of sailors ashore
that they might bring off a fresh supply of water.

When the sailors returned to the ship they were
very much excited and told a strange tale. There on
the island they had found a company of men who
looked like brigands, but who said that they were
Christian slaves, just escaped from the Turks. These
men had implored the sailors to help them as they had
very little food and were in great distress.

As soon as Bartolo heard all this he jumped into the
boat and bade the sailors row him to the island, that
he might see for himself who these men were and what
help they might need.

The escaped slaves very soon saw what manner of
man Bartolo was. And because he had such a kind
heart and was so anxious to help every one, they made
their story as sad as possible, and ended up by begging
him to give them money.

' But I have no money of my own to give you,' said
Bartolo simply. ' I can but give you food and
clothing.'

' No money ? ' said the men roughly. ' Then how
comes it that thou art sailing as master of that great
ship ? '

' The ship belongs to my father, and the money that
I have is his also, lent to me on trust,' answered
Bartolo. ' I am bound by my promise not to give it

74 STORIES OF ITALY

away, but to trade with it and bring back merchandise
in its stead.'

A gleam came into the greedy eyes of the men as they
listened.

' That is well,' they said, ' for thou canst then lay
out thy money wisely in buying our great treasure.'

' What treasure is that ? ' asked Bartolo in surprise,
for the men had said they possessed nothing.

' A treasure indeed,' said one of them with a hoarse
laugh, ' the most beautiful maiden thine eyes have
ever rested upon. She is a princess, daughter of the
Grand Turk. When we escaped from the palace we
contrived to carry her off with us, and now we mean to
make her serve our ends in one way or another.
Either we shall sell her for gold, or make her suffer in
revenge for all the misery her people have caused us
these many years.'

' I do not buy slaves,' said Bartolo haughtily, ' and
what use would a beautiful maiden be to me ? '

' Come now,' said the man, ' thou mayest at least
look at our treasure, even if thou hast no mind to buy
her.'

Then with cruel, rough hands they dragged forward
a young, helpless girl and placed her in front of Bartolo.
Never before had he seen anything half so lovely,
and he almost held his breath as he gazed earnestly at
her. Her gauzy dress of silken tissue was torn and
soiled, and she looked like a delicate flower which had
been carelessly plucked and left to fade. But in spite

STELLANTE 75

of all she had suffered, her beauty shone out like a
gleam of heaven's sunshine in a dark place. Her
long golden hair had escaped from its fastening and
half wrapped her round as with a mantle, and her
wonderful star-like eyes seemed to shine as from an
inward light.

It was plain that she had been but cruelly treated,
for the look she cast at Bartolo was one of terror.
She seemed so unhappy that his heart was wrung
Avith pity, and he began to wonder if he could not buy
her and save her from the cruelty of her captors.

' Well, and how much do you want for your
treasure ? ' he said, as he turned to the men who
watched him with eager looks.

' Six hundred golden pieces,' they said at once.

' Then I certainly cannot buy her,' said Bartolo,
' for I have only three hundred zecchini all told.'

But the men began to consult together, for they
wanted to get rid of the princess, and needed the
money immediately, so with a very bad grace they
told Bartolo he might have her at that price.

' Though indeed thou mightest well give us more,'
they grumbled, ' seeing how rich are her clothes and
how precious is that jewelled star which she wears
round her neck.'

But seeing there was indeed no more money to be
had, they took all that they could get, and Bartolo
carried off the beautiful maiden back to the ship with
him.

76 STORIES OF ITALY

Now, as all the money was gone and there was
nothing left with which to buy merchandise, it seemed
useless to go farther, and so the ship was turned
homewards and they set sail once more for Venice.

At first the beautiful princess was more frightened
than ever, but ere long, when she saw how gently
she was treated, she began to take courage. The
best state-room was given to her, and she was
waited upon as if she were a queen, while every one
was ready to do her bidding. So the frightened look
began to die out of her star-like eyes, and she grew
more beautiful than ever. No one could understand
her at first, for she spoke a language that sounded
strange in their ears, but very soon she learned to say
' Bartolo,' and whenever she wanted anything, or if
she was lonely or unhappy, her soft voice would be
heard calling ' Bartolo, Bartolo.' When he came he
was sure to make everything right.

After that Bartolo began to teach her other words,
and especially taught her to say ' Father ' over and
over again. He was very anxious that the old
merchant should be pleased with the beautiful girl
whom he was bringing home in exchange for the gold.

So the pleasant days flew swiftly by. But though
the maiden seemed happy, there were times when the
look of misery and fear would cloud her eyes again.
She could not yet understand where she was going.
She knew she was a slave, and feared she might be sold
once more, and that perhaps a worse fate awaited her.

STELLANTE 77

At last they came in sight of Venice, and Bartolo
was rejoiced to see his beautiful city again. But for
the first time he began to wonder what his father
would think of this adventure. It would be wiser,
he thought, to see him alone and tell him all about
it, before bringing the maiden home. So he left the
princess in the ship, promising ere long to return and
fetch her.

The old merchant was overjoyed to see his son, and
embraced him again and again.

' But how is it that thou hast returned so soon ? '
he asked.

Then Bartolo began to tell his tale, and as he went
on the merchant's brow grew blacker and blacker,
and when the story was finished with the account of
how the three hundred golden zecchini had been paid
for the maiden, the old man's rage knew no bounds.

' Alas ! that I should have a fool for a son,' he
shouted. ' Dost thou dream that thou canst ever get
half the money for her that thou hast given ? '

' Get money for her ? ' said Bartolo. ' What ?
Dost thou imagine I intend to sell her ? '

' And what else is she good for ? ' asked his father.
' If thou wilt not sell her, I will, and that right quickly
too.'

' Thou shalt not as much as touch her,' said Bartolo,
getting angry too, ' and if thou darest to interfere with
her in any way, I will appeal to the Sindaco for
protection.'

78 STORIES OF ITALY

The old merchant had never seen his son angry
before, and as, in spite of his loud talk, he was rather a
coward, he became somewhat frightened at Bartolo's
wrath.

' Come, come,' he said in a gentler tone, ' I will
not touch her. Let me but see this wonderful
treasure.'

So Bartolo went back to the ship and brought the
maiden to his father's house, and as they returned
together he tried to make her understand where they
were going to, by saying ' Father ' over and over again.

The sun had been hiding behind a cloud, and the
room looked grey and cheerless as the maiden came
timidly forward. But just at that moment the cloud
passed and a burst of sunshine flooded the room with
light. It shone upon the silvery gauze of the princess's
dress, it lightened into a cloud of glory the waves of
her golden hair, and played with tiny points of light
upon the sparkling jewels of the star upon her breast,
until she seemed wrapped round in a halo of living
flame. Her starry eyes shone with excitement, and
as she came nearer and said * Father ' in her soft voice,
the old man started as if he had seen a vision, and then
bowed his head and kissed her hand as if doing
homage to a queen.

There was no more talk of selling the treasure, for
the old merchant began to love her almost as much as
he loved his son. And when the maiden had learned
to speak their language, she guided the household

STELLANTE 79

affairs so skilfully, and attended to all their wants so
carefully, that Bartolo and his father wondered what
they had ever done without her.

' Bartolo,' said the old man one day, ' pray what
dost thou mean to do with this beautiful maiden ? '

Bartolo looked up with troubled eyes.

' I too have been thinking of that,' he said. ' Me-
thinks we should send her to some convent where
the good nuns would teach her our faith so that she
may be baptized, and then perchance we may wed
her to some great prince.'

' Now, by my faith,' said the old merchant crossly,
' thou art more foolish than ever I had supposed.
Why not marry her thyself ? '

But Bartolo opened his eyes wide in wonder and
surprise.

' Marry her ! ' he repeated ; ' but she is a princess, and
would never marry a common merchant.'

' Oh, go thy own foolish way,' said his father; ' I
wash my hands of thee.'

Bartolo shook his head gravely, and ere long he so
arranged matters that the princess was received into a
convent. There she was taught many things, and at
last was baptized by the name of Stellante. They
chose that name because her eyes were like the stars,
and because she always wore upon her breast the
beautiful star-like jewel, which was her only possession.

But it was not long before the good nuns sent for
Bartolo and told him that their charge was very

80 STORIES OF ITALY

vmhappy and constantly prayed to be allowed to go
home. Not till then did Bartolo come to know that
his beautiful Stellante really loved him and could not
be happy without him. So they were married, and it
seemed as if life was all to be as gay as a summer's
morning.

But at the end of a year the old merchant began to
grow restless and called his son to him.

' Thou hast well learned how to spend money,' he
said, ' but never how to make it. Once more I will
give thee three hundred zecchini and a good ship,
and to-morrow thou shalt sail away on a fresh
venture.'

Sorrow fell on the heart of Stellante when she knew
that she must be left alone. Day and night she sat
and wove a fine chain of her own golden hair, and when
it was finished she hung thereon her jewelled star and
clasped it round the neck of her beloved Bartolo.

' Thou shalt never part with it,' she said. ' The
chain of my hair will bind my heart to thine — the star
will serve to remind thee of Stellante.'

So Bartolo set out once more, but this time he was
not eager to go, but rather counted the days until he
should return.

The first place at which the ship stopped was the
little town of Amalfi, with its great convent perched
on the side of the vine-clad hill. The people of
Amalfi were then a greedy, grasping race, who cared
for nothing but gain and bargaining, and as Bartolo

STELLANTE 81

crossed the market-place he saw to his surprise that
a dead man lay there among the merchandise.

' How is this ? ' he asked of one of the passers-by ;
' do you allow a man to lie unburied in your streets ? '

' That is a man who died in debt,' said the other
carelessly, ' and his creditors will not allow him to be
buried until all his debts are paid.'

That, of course, was more than Bartolo could suffer,
and before long he had paid all the poor man's debts,
and the body was laid to rest. Then Bartolo felt he
must help the widow and children, and when all was
done there was not a penny left of the three hundred
golden zecchini.

' Well,' said Bartolo to himself, ' this time, at any
rate, my father cannot disapprove, for surely he
would himself have acted as I have done.' So he sailed
back to Venice in good spirits, longing to see Stellante
again.

No words can describe the rage and fury of the old
merchant when he heard how his son had spent the
gold pieces.

' Never darken my doors again ! ' he screamed.
' From this day forth I cast thee out, and thou art no
longer a son of mine. The Turkish girl and the dead
man may be thy protectors.'

Very sorrowfully then did Bartolo turn away, but
scarcely had he gone ten steps when a little hand was
slipped into his and he found Stellante by his side.

4 Thou canst not come with me, little Star,' he said.

v

82 STORIES OF ITALY

' I have no home now to which to take thee. Stay
rather in peace and comfort with my father.'

' But I cannot live without thee,' said Stellante,
' and didst thou not hear what thy father said ? The
Turkish girl will indeed be thy protector.'

So together they went out to seek their fortune, and
Stellante began to sew the most wonderful pieces of
embroidery, such as no one had ever before seen in
Venice. When these were sold they brought in such a
great price that there was money enough on which to
live in ease and comfort. Bartolo, too, found work
to do, and while he was away Stellante sewed her
embroidery and began to make three great pieces of
tapestry, the stitches of which were so fine and varied
that a whole year passed before the work was finished.

Now it happened at the end of a year that a great
fair was held to which buyers and sellers came from
all the country round. Stellante therefore took the
tapestry and bade Bartolo carry it to the fair where
he might chance to sell it.

' But above all things,' she warned him, ' do not
breathe my name to any one or tell who has done the
work, and do not take less than a hundred gold zecchini
for each piece.'

The days of the fair went past and many people
came to look and admire the wonderful pieces of
tapestry, but they all shook their heads when they
heard of the great price which was asked for them. No
one was found who would offer even fifty zecchini.

STELLANTE 83

Bartolo began to feel downcast and heavy-hearted,
for it was near the end of the fair, and he feared he
would be forced to carry back the tapestry unsold.
But on the very last day some strange foreign-looking
men came to look at the work and seemed to think the
price not too great.

' We come with a commission from the King of
France,' they told Bartolo. ' He wishes his palace to
be hung with the rarest and most beautiful tapestry,
and these pieces are the most exquisite we have seen.
But before we buy them we would wish to learn who
has done this wonderful work ? '

' I must not tell the name of the worker,' answered
Bartolo ; ' that must go untold.'

Then the men consulted together and finally bade
Bartolo bring the tapestry on board their ship which
was lying at anchor close by. It must be delivered to
the captain, they said, and he would pay for it himself.

But when Bartolo had carried the precious load on
board and the captain had examined it closely, he still
refused to pay the money.

' This is a woman's work,' he said, ' and how am I
to know that thou hast not stolen it ? '

Bartolo was very angry when he heard this, so angry
indeed that he forgot the warning given him by
Stellante.

' It is my wife's work,' he said proudly, ' and I am
selling it for her.'

' Nevertheless you shall prove your words,' answered

84 STORIES OF ITALY

the captain. ' Bring thy wife here that I may pay
her the money herself.'

So Bartolo went home and told Stellante all that
had happened, and how in his anger he had broken his
promise.

' All that cannot now be mended,' said Stellante ;
' but thovi shouldst not have left the tapestry behind.
Now we shall lose the work of a whole long year.'

' Nay, but thou wilt come with me and claim the
money, Stellante ? ' said Bartolo anxiously, for he could
not bear to think of losing that exquisite work.

Stellante shook her head.

' Wiser not, dear heart,' she said. ' Rather let us
lose the work than risk an unknown danger.'

But Bartolo gave her no rest until she consented to
do as he wished, and at last they went back together
to the great foreign ship.

The captain's rough manner changed when he saw
the beautiful maiden with the star-like eyes, and he
courteously invited her to descend to his cabin that he
might at once pay her the money. But no sooner had
she disappeared below than the cry of ' Bartolo !
Bartolo ! ' rang out, and when her husband rushed
forward he was seized by two sailors and received a
blow on the head which felled him to the deck and he
became unconscious.

How long it was that he lay there, Bartolo never
knew, but when he came to himself the ship was sailing
far out to sea and there was no land in sight. Not a

STELLANTE 85

sound came from the cabin, and the sailors told him
roughly that Stellante was dead. So he sank back in
black despair once more.

Now the sailors were speaking falsely when they
said that Stellante was dead, for Stellante was alive
and in safe keeping, but in another part of the ship.

These men were none other than the servants of the
Grand Turk, her father, who had sent them out to
seek all over the world for his lost daughter. Vainly
had they searched all these years and not a clue had
they found until one of them had caught sight of the
beautiful tapestry, and knew that the secret of that
exquisite work was known only to the Sultan's
daughters. Thus they had laid their plans to carry
off Stellante, and were now on their way back to
Turkey to carry her home to her father. Of course
the Grand Turk would have nothing to say to Bartolo,
who was but a common man and a Christian to boot,
and the captain was anxious to get rid of him as soon
as possible. That very day, when the ship was sailing
past a desert island, the captain commanded that the
captive should be put ashore and left there to starve.

Bound hand and foot poor Bartolo was left helpless
upon the desolate shore. His life would soon have
been ended had not one of the sailors in pity turned
back and cut the ropes which were tied so tightly
round him.

' It may give thee a chance of life, poor wretch,' said
the sailor, as he hurried after his companions.

86 STORIES OF ITALY

Weak and ill from all the hardships and suffering
he had undergone, Bartolo could scarcely stand up-
right, and as he tried to climb up the hill in search
of water to cool his parched throat, he often stumbled
and fell. It was drawing towards evening now, and
only the last faint twittering of the birds was heard
as they settled to rest in the branches of the thick
trees. The flowers that go to rest had folded their
petals and closed their cups, and not a sound was
soon to be heard but the lap of the waves on the
shore below.

Suddenly the clear call of a vesper bell broke the
heavy silence and Bartolo paused in amazement.
Could he be dreaming ? No, there was the sound of
the bell again, and as he looked up he saw the dim
outline of a little chapel upon the brow of the hill.
Perhaps if he could climb that steep path there might
be some one there who could help him. His feet
dragged wearily on, and all the time he wondered if,
after all, he wanted help, or if it would not be better
to lie down and die.

Darker and darker it grew, and then one pale star
shone out through the deep blue, and breathed its
pure silver light upon the poor stumbling form, as if
to light a beacon of hope in the black darkness of his
despair.

With a start Bartolo turned and caught a glint of
that silver point of light, and stretching out his hands,
he called aloud in the bitterness and longing of his

STELLANTE 87

heart, ' Stellante, Stellante, where art thou, star of my
heart ? ' Then the darkness seemed to close in around
him and he knew no more.

But close at hand an old hermit was kneeling in the
little chapel, and when the strange cry fell upon his
ear, he rose quickly from his knees and hurried out to
see who it was that needed his help. Very gently he
carried Bartolo into his poor cell and laid him upon the
bed of dried leaves, and held a cup of cool water to his
lips.

For many weeks the good old hermit tenderly nursed
the stranger back to life, but could not find out who he
was or whence he came. There was but one cry
always upon his lips, ' Stellante, Stellante,' and nothing
more.

Then by-and-bye as health returned Bartolo told his
story little by little, and the old man listened with
pitying look.

' Grieve not so bitterly, my son,' he said at length.
' Something tells me that the star of thy life is not
yet set. Be sure that Stellante lives and some day
thou wilt again behold her.'

' Thou meanest, perchance, in Paradise ? ' said
Bartolo drearily ; ' but, Father, that seems a long, long
way off.'

But the old hermit shook his head and still bade
Bartolo not despair.

' Meanwhile, my son, what wilt thou do here ? ' he
asked. ' Shall we set up a signal upon the hilltop that

88 STORIES OF ITALY

some passing ship may stay its course and carry thee
hence ? '

' No, no,' said Bartolo quickly, ' let me rather live
here quietly with thee. The world has been no friend
to me, and I am done with it.'

The old hermit thought deeply for a few minutes
and then laid his hand tenderly on Bartolo's bowed
head.

' I am old now,' he said, ' and my span of life grows
short. If thou wilt tarry here with me my days will
indeed be brighter for thy presence. But either thou
must leave at once before I grow to love thee and
depend on thee too much, or else thou must promise
me that whatever comes thou wilt never part from me.'

' That will I promise with all my heart,' said Bartolo,
and he knelt to receive the hermit's blessing.

So the days went by and the hermit and Bartolo
lived their simple life together. There was much to
do in the garden, digging and planting and training the
vines, and there was the little chapel to sweep out, and
the bell to ring for matins and vespers. They scarcely
noticed how quickly the days slipped by until one day
they counted up that a whole year had passed since
Bartolo had been left upon the island.

They were sitting that afternoon, talking happily
together as they looked across the blue mirror of the
sea, when they suddenly caught sight of a ship sailing
towards the island with widespread sails like a white
butterfly. As it came nearer, and its flag could be

STELLANTE 89

seen, the hermit rose quickly to his feet and turned
to Bartolo.

' My son,' he said, ' we must hide ourselves in some
safe place. The men on board that ship are Turkish
pirates, and should they land and find us here we
would fare badly at their hands.'

Swiftly then Bartolo and the old hermit made their
way to the little chapel, which was well built and had a
strong oaken door. This door they made stronger still
by piling against it inside their few wooden benches,
and the store of winter firewood which they had already
gathered.

So well and quickly did Bartolo work that when
the pirates, with a shout of triumph, discovered their
hiding-place and tried to force the door, they could not
move it an inch. Again and again they tried and then
they grew impatient, for they had but little time to
spare.

' Come out,' they shouted to Bartolo ; ' we will let
thee go unharmed if thou wilt open the door.'

' But wilt thou also spare the holy man, my father ? '
said Bartolo from inside.

' No, no,' shouted the pirates, ' the price of thy
freedom shall be the life of the old man.'

' Then will we die together,' said Bartolo calmly.

The pirates drew off for a little to consider what was
to be done. They had no means of setting fire to the
little chapel, and it was now time to return to their
ship.

90 STORIES OF ITALY

Come, then,' they shouted at last, ' open the door
and both your lives shall be spared.'

Even the rough pirates were touched by the sight of
the two figures that came slowly out of the chapel.
The old hermit, frail and aged, and the young man to
whom he clung with trembling hands and who guided
his tottering steps with loving care while he gazed
fearlessly into the faces of their captors.

' Thou art a brave man,' said the pirate chief, ' and
we love bravery wherever we find it. It is true that
henceforth ye are doomed to be slaves, but I will
promise that when thou art sold thou shalt not be
parted from thy aged father whose life thou hast
saved.'

The chief was as good as his word, and when the
ship arrived at Constantinople, Bartolo and the old
hermit were sold to the Sultan's gardener, and were set
to work together in the palace gardens.

But what had become of Stellante all this time ?
On that evil day when the captain of the Turkish
vessel told her he had discovered who she was, and
that he meant to carry her back to Turkey, she cried
aloud as she always did in any trouble, ' Bartolo,
Bartolo,' feeling sure he would come and rescue her.
Never before had he failed her, never before had her
cry fallen unheeded on his ears. And when he did not
answer she was ready to believe what the captain so
grimly told her, that Bartolo was dead.

They could do as they liked with her then, she cared

STELLANTE 91

for nothing, and it was easy to keep her a close
prisoner until Bartolo was safely put out of the
way upon the desert island. Like a lily with a
broken stem she sat bowed with grief and refused all
comfort.

Then at last the ship sailed into the harbour and the
captain delivered the long-lost princess to her father
the Sultan. But there was no joy in Stellante's heart,
and the light of the stars had faded from her eyes.

The Sultan scarcely knew his beautiful daughter
again in this pale, sad maiden, and he listened kindly
to her story, though she dared not tell him that she
had become a Christian.

' I am weary and broken-hearted,' she said when she
had finished her tale ; ' let me live for a while alone in
peace and quietness, my father.'

' Thou shalt do whatever pleaseth thee best,' said
the Sultan, ready to promise anything in his delight at
having her back once more.

So Stellante lived in a separate part of the palace all
alone, with only one old black slave called Rachel to
wait upon her.

Life seemed like a long grey road stretching out
before her, flat and uninteresting, and she shivered as
she sat day after day gazing into the future which
looked so empty, cold, and grey.

' Your Highness,' said the old black slave one day,
' are all Christians as sad as thou ? '

Stellante started and looked up.

92 STORIES OF ITALY

' Nay,' she said, ' the Christians are happier than
any other people.'

Old Rachel smiled and half shook her head, and for
the first time Stellante began to feel ashamed of her
selfish sorrowing and for the ceaseless moan she made
over her unhappiness. Little by little she taught the
old woman what it meant to be a Christian, and she
grew almost happy as she watched the interest and
light dawn in the kind old eyes. Then together they
made plans to help the poor slaves whom they could
see working in the palace grounds, and at night
Rachel would steal out and carry food and medicine
and many comforts which Stellante' s skilful fingers
had prepared during the day.

Gradually the heavy grey cloud lifted off Stellante's
life, and the long dull road was marked by shining-
white pebbles of peaceful, happy days. But in spite of
her work there were many dreary hours to pass through,
and the light that once more shone in her starry eyes was
often dimmed by the tears that rose from her sad heart.

One day, as she stood by the window gazing out at
the bright sunshine and gay flowers, she wondered if
light and happiness would ever really fill her broken
heart again. There was a far-away look in her eyes,
for she was thinking of Venice and those dream-like
days of pure delight, when the fairy isles of the lagunes
seemed to beckon her over the sea of glass, with the
reflections of their tiny spires like a long finger mirrored
in the silent waters. It was all so real to her then that

STELLANTE 93

a strain of soft music seemed to mingle in the delight
of that vision, and the words of a song she loved
floated on the air.

' Bartolo, Bartolo,' she cried softly to herself with
sobbing breath, and then she looked to find the
picture gone, as it had so often vanished before. But
though the vision had fled the song still floated on
the air, and the words came clear and distinct to her
ear from the garden beneath.

It was no dream voice, some one was singing down
there in the garden, but although Stellante could not
see the singer from her window, she felt sure it must
be some poor Italian prisoner who had been carried
off from his sunny land to toil as a slave in the Sultan's
garden. The thought troubled her, and she called
Rachel at once and bade her go out and make careful
search among the slaves and find out if one among
them was an Italian.

It seemed to Stellante that Rachel was absent a very
long time, and she paced the room with impatient
steps, scarcely knowing why she felt so restless, except
that the song she had heard had wakened old memories
that crowded like dim ghosts around her.

' Hast thou then found the singer ? ' she cried out
eagerly, when she heard Rachel's steps slowly mount-
ing the stairs that led to her mistress's room.

' Have patience, my princess,' panted the old
woman, ' and I will tell thee all, if thou wilt but give
me time to find my breath again.'

94 STORIES OF ITALY

Stellante twisted her fingers together and tapped
the floor with one impatient foot. It was hard to wait
even a few seconds. But presently the old woman
began her tale.

' Thou art right,' she said ; ' the gardener has a new
slave who talks a strange language which they call
Italian, and they say, too, that he is a Christian. He
is a young man, and my heart ached with pity as I
watched him, for he looks so sad and worn. Neverthe-
less I doubt if we can help him much, for I do not think
it is the hard work and rough usage that makes him
miserable. For when he thought no one was near I
saw him draw out from his breast a jewelled star, which
was hung round his neck by a golden chain, and as he
kissed it he sighed as if his heart would break, and the
jewels shone wet with his tears. But, my princess,
why dost thou look so pale, and why dost thou tremble
greatly ? '

For Stellante had grown as white as a lily, and she
swayed forward as if she had not strength to stand.

' Didst thou say a jewelled star, and that it was hung
by a golden chain ? ' she cried. ' O Bartolo, Bartolo,
can it indeed be thou ? '

The poor old slave-woman feared for a moment that
her beloved princess had lost her reason. But her
fears were turned to joy when, half laughing and half
sobbing, Stellante told her of the braided chain of her
own golden hair, and the jewelled star which she had
herself hung around her husband's neck.

STELLANTE 95

' It can be no other than he,' Stellante breathed, ' and
oh, Rachel, thou must help me to see him to-night.'

But Rachel looked grave, and mournfully shook her
head.

' That cannot be,' she said. ' Wert thou once seen
outside the palace doors, the Sultan, thy father, would
instantly send to have thee executed.'

' Some way must be found,' answered Stellante
calmly. ' Even if I am discovered, I must see this
stranger at once and know who he is.'

O

Long and earnestly they talked together until at
last a plan was arranged. It was dangerous, but since
Stellante had made up her mind to go, the only way
was to dress herself in Rachel's flowing garments, hold
the veil close over her face, and then go and stand at
the well where the slaves came to draw water after
sundown.

In the shadow of a great tree which overhung the
well, Stellante waited that evening, with bowed head
and closely veiled face. Scarce a look was cast upon
her, for the old slave-woman used often to stand there,
and the slaves who came with weary feet to draw
water from the well did not often notice her. Eagerly
Stellante watched their sad, worn faces as the dreary
procession passed on. The light was slowly fading
now, and as the last man passed by, hope seemed to
die out in her heart. No, he was not there, it was all a
mistake, and now she must go back to her loneliness
once more.

96 STORIES OF ITALY

But as, with a sob, she turned to go she heard
another step draw near, and in the dim light she saw a
tired figure with bowed shoulders come slowly towards
the well. She needed not to look closer at his face,
her heart knew even the echo of that footfall, and
with a half-cry she sprang forward to meet her
husband.

' Who art thou ? ' said Bartolo, startled out of his
dreams by this strange, closely veiled woman, who had
clasped her arms around his neck.

' Bartolo ! Bartolo ! ' she cried, and needed to say no
more, for Bartolo's arms were round her and he held
her close to his heart.

' Stellante, star of my life,' he whispered, ' tell me
thou art real and no dream which will but vanish and
leave my arms empty when I awake.'

Meanwhile in the palace the slow hours dragged by,
and the old slave-woman sat and watched with anxious,
fearful heart. She started at every noise and wrung
her hands in despair as time went on and her princess
did not return.

' She is discovered,' she wailed aloud. ' Oh, why did
I ever allow her to run into so certain a danger ? '

But even as she lamented, a soft knock sounded on
the door, and when with trembling hands old Rachel
opened it, Stellante glided in. There was no need to
ask if she had found what she sought, the light in her
eyes and the wonder of her beauty seemed to cast a
spell even over the old slave-woman, and she could

STELLANTE 97

only kneel and kiss Stellante's hands and bathe them
with her thankful tears.

There was much now to think about and difficult
matters to plan, for Stellante had made up her mind
that not only should she and Bartolo escape, but that
they would take with them all the Christian slaves.
The difficulty, however, was not so great since
Stellante had gold enough and to spare, and could pay
for all the help they needed.

In a wonderfully short time the arrangements were
made. A good ship was hired to be ready to sail at
nightfall from the harbour, and all the slaves were
warned to meet on the shore at sundown, where
boats would be waiting to carry them off to the
ship.

One by one the slaves silently gathered at the
appointed place, and Bartolo carefully placed Stellante
and old Rachel in the first boat and then directed the
men where to go.

But as he rapidly counted them over an anxious
look came into his eyes, and he asked in a troubled
voice, ' Where is the old man, my father ? '

No one had seen him, and in the hurry of departure
all seemed to have forgotten him.

Just then lights began to shine in all the palace
windows, and a distant roar of voices was heard.

' Our escape has been discovered,' cried the men.
' Quick, quick, let us cast off or all will be lost.'

' Bartolo, Bartolo,' cried Stellante, ' oh, come

G

98 STORIES OF ITALY

quickly,' and she stretched out her arms to try to
draw him into the boat.

' Nay, I cannot come without the old man,' said
Bartolo. ' I have promised.'

' Then we must all perish together,' said the men in
despair.

' Not so,' said Bartolo quickly. ' Cast away and
row off to the ship with all speed. I will stay and
search for the old hermit.'

' You shall not stay,' cried Stellante wildly, ' or I
will stay with thee.'

But even as she spoke the boat was pushed off and
Bartolo was left alone upon the seashore. In vain she
prayed and entreated to be taken back ; the men
grimly held to their oars, and took no notice of her
cries, for it was a matter of life and death to all of them,
and they knew a Turkish vessel would soon be ready
to sail in pursuit. Half fainting, Stellante was lifted
on board, and all night long she lay with her head
on old Rachel's lap, white and silent as death. It
was a terrible night for all on board. The Turkish
ship gained fast upon them, and would ere long have
recaptured them had not a dense mist come suddenly
rolling in from the sea and hidden them in its great
white, friendly folds. But even then they anxiously
watched and waited for the dawn, never knowing
where their enemy might be.

Towards daybreak the mist began to melt into a
gentle rain, and the pale face upon old Rachel's

STELLANTE 99

lap began to show signs of returning life as the cool,
refreshing drops fell upon the white cheeks. Gradually
all the sad truth came back to Stellante and she stood
upright, with the strength given her by her anger and
despair. With flashing eyes she called the men
traitors and cowards.

' He had helped you all, to him you owed your escape,
and yet you sailed away in safety and left him alone
and defenceless to face the rage and revenge of your
masters,' she cried.

The men hung their heads and answered nothing.
They could not reason with her, but so great was her
grief and anger that they feared she would throw
herself into the sea.

But like most fierce storms Stellante' s anger soon
spent itself, and ere long she sat sobbing, with her
head leaning against old Rachel's shoulder.

' Princess,' said the old woman, ' anger and re-
proaches cannot help us ; let us rather pray that all
may yet be well.'

But Stellante only shook her head, she could not
even pray, and alone the old woman quietly told her
beads and prayed for the safety of Bartolo and the old
man.

Stellante sat silent, but presently she lifted her
head and seemed to listen to some far-off sound. Then
she stood up and ran swiftly to the side of the ship.
There was a quick movement among the men, for they
did not know what she meant to do, but she only lifted

100 STORIES OF ITALY

her finger and bade them be silent, and stood there with
that listening look, and eyes which strove to pierce the
mist. Then by-and-bye they, too, heard the sound of
oars dipped in regular cadence, and through the mist
the dim outline of a boat was seen to glide nearer and
nearer, manned by two ghostly figures. Slowly they
drew near and then a shout of joy went up from all on
board, for they saw that the two grey figures were
indeed their lost comrades, Bartolo and the old hermit.

Eager hands helped them on board and anxious
voices asked how they had fared, but they were too
tired to speak until they had been revived by food and
wine. Then with Stellante's hand clasped close in his,
Bartolo told how he had gone back and found the old
man, and how in the uproar no one had noticed them
and they had managed to escape unseen into the
friendly mist which had hidden them, too, from their
enemies. The old hermit had rowed with wonderful
strength and seemed to have eyes that could pierce
the mist, for he had directed the boat's course so well
that they had come straight to their own vessel.

Merrily then the good ship sailed along, leaving the
unfriendly shores and cruel pursuers far behind, and
daily it drew nearer that dear land they called
home. But as each brow grew lighter and each heart
grew happier there was one person who became sadder
and quieter as the days passed by. This was the old
hermit, and when at last the long purple line on the
horizon showed that land would soon be near, he called

STELLANTE 101

all the men together and bade them listen to a tale he
had to tell.

It was the story of Bartolo's life which the old man
told to the listening company. It began with all the
kind little deeds which their captain had done when he
was but a child in Venice, and it then went on to his
rescue of Stellante and all the adventures which came
after. There were many things told which even Bartolo
himself had forgotten, and he was amazed at the
knowledge which the old hermit possessed. As he
listened to the list of his good deeds he grew shame-
faced, especially when all the men shouted with one
accord, ' Long live our captain ! '

But the old hermit held up his hand and asked for
silence, that he might go on with his story.

' There is but little more to tell,' he said, ' but now
I would explain to you my own share in this story. I
am none other than that poor, disgraced debtor whom
Bartolo found in the market-place of Amain, and laid
to rest in a peaceful grave. In the world of shadows
I was permitted to know what dangers threatened him,
and allowed to return to earth for a space to watch
over and protect him. There upon the desert island
I waited for him, and ever since I have helped and
guided him. Now, my children, my time is ended.
Bartolo, you have no longer need of me, for thy other
protector, the star of thy life, shines clear upon thy
pathway once more, and peace and happiness await
thee as the just reward of thy kind deeds.'

102 STORIES OF ITALY

Then as they looked, the old man was gone, and they
knew he had been indeed a guardian angel sent to
protect and help him who had never failed to help and
protect others that needed his care.

So, hand in hand, Stellante and Bartolo began life
once more in beautiful Venice, and the blessing they
had earned was like a golden ring around them,
keeping out all evil, and closing them in with love and
peace and true happiness.

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY

THE Christmas bells had but lately ceased to ring out
the message of peace and goodwill to all the world, and
now the Feast of the Epiphany was drawing near. All
around the city there hung an expectant air of holiday-
making, and every one was preparing for the great
festa. The street boys made enough noise on their
long glass trumpets to drive peaceful people mad, but
the good-natured folks only clapped their hands over
their ears and thanked the saints that such noise came
but once a year. Up and down the busy streets the
country-people walked, swinging pairs of shrieking
fowls by their long, lean legs, eager to sell them for a
good price, and paying no heed to their miserable cries.
There was scarcely a family in the city, however poor,
who would not have a fowl to cook for the coming
festa, and so trade was brisk and bargaining became a
fine art.

Amidst all the noise of bargaining, the shrieks of
fowls, and the blare of the glass trumpets, a poor
woman made her way through the busy, crowded
streets. Her thin old shawl was tightly wound round
her shoulders, and in its folds was wrapped a little
bundle which from its shape might be a baby. Another

103

104 STORIES OF ITALY

child, three or four years old, clattered along over the
stone pavement, at her side, clutching a fold of the
mother's gown, Behind came the tap, tap of wooden
crutches as a bigger child who was lame tried to keep
up with the rest.

The woman looked wistfully at the array of fowls
held up so temptingly before her, and the quick eye of
one of the sellers rested on her at once.

' Ecco,' he cried, ' this is the very thing thou seekest!
See how fat and tender he is.' Here he displayed a
sad-looking, long-legged bird, little more than skin
and bone and bedraggled feathers. ' And the price is
so small, it is really nothing. I rob myself and my
innocent children, but there ! I give it thee for two
lire.'

The woman shook her head and hurried on. She
could not trust herself to look at the tempting dainty.

' Mother,' said Brigida, the little lame girl, making
an effort to keep up at her mother's side, ' shall we
have no festa to-morrow ? '

' Who can tell ? ' said her mother cheerfully. ' Per-
haps we may earn money to-day. If the master can
but pay us, we may keep the festa with the best of
them. A good boiled fowl and plenty of polenta, a
gay new dress for the old doll thou lovest so well, a
toy for little Maria here, and good milk for little
Beppino. Ah yes, who knows, we too may keep the
festa ! '

The faces of the two children brightened as she

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 105

talked, and Maria's little legs, which had begun to
drag wearily along, stepped out bravely once more.

' See, here we are,' said the mother, stopping before
a big, gloomy-looking entrance and preparing to climb
the steps which led up and up to the top story.

' Who comes there ? ' sounded a warning voice from
above.

' A friend,' answered the woman, and then climbed
steadily on, giving a helping hand to the tired child at
her side.

At last they all reached the topmost flight, and there
a door stood open, and a tall, stern-faced old man
looked keenly out on the little family who came toiling
up the last few steps.

' All ! ' he said, ' so thou hast brought my model.
Come in, come in ; the daylight fades all too soon these
bitter days, and I would finish my work to-day if
it be possible.'

He led them as he spoke into a great, bare attic, and
bade the woman sit upon the old chair which he pulled
forward.

The children pressed close to their mother and looked
about with round, surprised eyes. What a strange
place this was ! No table, no bed, nothing but piles
of pictures standing with their faces against the walls,
and in the centre of the room on a curious wooden stand
a great uncovered picture glowing with such wonderful
colour that it seemed almost to shine in the dull, dim
room. The light from the sloping window fell full

106 STORIES OF ITALY

upon this picture, and as they looked the children
forgot their shyness and fear of the stern-faced old
man, and pressed forward to look at it.

Why, it was a picture of the very festa which they
were preparing to keep next day, the feast of the
Blessed Epiphany. There was the rough, rude stable,
with the dim outline of the cattle just seen in the
background ; at one side an empty manger ; and in the
centre, where some straw had been heaped together,
the Holy Mother with her Baby in her arms. Such a
sweet young mother she looked, as she gazed down
with tender happiness and almost reverent awe upon
the Child on her knee. Before them, on the rough
stones of the stable floor, knelt the three kings, their
heads bent in lowly adoration, their costly robes of
crimson, purple and gold standing out in contrast to
the dark stable and the simply clad mother. It was a
wonderful picture, but it was disappointing too, for
the best part of all was still unfinished, and only a blank
showed where the face of the Gesu Bambino was still to
be painted.

The old painter himself stood with the children
looking at the picture, and he sighed heavily as he
gazed. Day after day, month after month, he had
worked at this picture, which he felt sure would at last
bring him fame and honour. Faithfully and well he
had worked, and each part was as beautiful as he could
make it : only one thing seemed beyond his power.
It was the face of the Child, the centre of the whole,

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 107

and toil as he might he could not paint it as he wished
it to be. Over and over again had he tried ; he had
sought for models far and near, but it always ended in
failure, and he painted it out each time in fresh despair.

But here was a new chance, a little model his quick
eye had noted in his search the day before. He
roused himself and bade the children stand back as he
caught up his brushes and prepared to work. Then
he turned impatiently to the woman.

' Unwrap thy shawl and hold the child so that I can
see its face,' he ordered. ' Dost thou think that I
wish to paint a mummy or a chrysalis ? '

The woman started and began hastily to undo her
shawl.

' He is asleep,' she said, ' and has a cough, poverino.'
But seeing an angry, impatient look come over the
painter's face, she hastened to rouse the child and
arrange its blue pinafore and gently stroke its little,
dark, downy head.

But Beppino did not approve of this at all. He
liked the soft shawl round him, and he wanted to go
to sleep. So his nose began to wrinkle up, and his
mouth to open wider as his eyes shut tighter, and a
long-drawn wail came sobbing forth. Then followed
a fit of coughing and more cries till the painter dashed
down his brushes and clapped his hands over his
ears.

' Away with thee ! ' he cried ; ' as well bring me a
screaming parroquet for a model.'

108 STORIES OF ITALY

The angry voice stopped Beppino's cries for a
moment, and he gazed across, his brown eyes full of
tears, and his lip still quivering and ready to start
afresh. The mother gently chafed the little blue
hands and spoke soothing words, and Maria clapped
her hands and played bo-peep to make him laugh.
But it was all no use. Beppino found the world a
cold, unkind place, and the sobs broke out again even
louder than before.

' There, take him away,' said the painter, ' it is but
waste of time,' and he stood gloomily looking on as the
woman wrapped Beppino in her old shawl once more
and took Maria's hand in hers. Very wearily she
walked towards the door, followed by the tap, tap of
Brigida's crutches behind. Then for one moment she
paused and looked round. Could she ask for just a
little help ? She had never begged of any one before,
but to-morrow was the f esta, and there was nothing for
the children to eat. It was some weeks now since poor
little Beppino's mother had died, leaving him alone
and uncared for, and he had had his share of love and
daily bread with her own two little ones. But an
extra mouth, however small, was difficult to fill, and
to-day she did not know where to turn to for help.
She looked wistfully at the tall figure with the stern
face standing there. She tried to speak, but the words
would not come. If he would but give her one kindly
glance she might find courage. But a dark frown had
gathered on the painter's forehead, and he turned

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 109

impatiently from her beseeching look and stood
before his picture.

With a choking sob the woman held the baby closer
and went slowly through the door and down the long
flight of stone steps. It was no use looking at the
fowls now or dreaming of gay presents. Brigida saw
the tears stealing one after another down her mother's
cheeks as they silently trudged homewards.

' Thou art not angry with the little one, mammina ? '
she asked anxiously. ' It is not easy to sit and smile
when one is cold and sleepy.'

The woman shook her head and tried to smile.

' Poor lamb,' she said ; ' no, it is no fault of his, but
there will be no festa for us to-morrow.'

Maria opened her mouth and gave out one long, loud
wail. No good food, no sweet cake, no toy ; it was
more than she could bear.

' Hush thee, hush now,' cried Brigida, bending down
to kiss the miserable little face. ' I promise thee thou
shalt have a beautiful present all thy own,' and she
gave a mysterious little nod and smile, which put a
stop to Maria's tears like magic.

Meanwhile, in the cold, bare attic the painter stood
motionless before his picture and then sank down in
his chair in an attitude of deep despair. All his hopes
had been set on this one picture, his greatest and his
best. He knew that the work was good, but he began
to fear now that it was beyond his power to finish it.
He saw nothing but the blank where the Christ-child's

110 STORIES OF ITALY

face should be, the centre and heart of the whole
picture, till at last he covered his eyes with his hand
that he might shut out the sight of his bitter failure
and disappointment.

But a few minutes seemed to have passed when he
looked up again with a start. What was that light
which shone so clear in the dim twilight of the room ?
It seemed to come from the unfinished picture, he
thought, and then suddenly he felt rather than saw
that the picture was unfinished no longer. The light
which dazzled his eyes was the halo of glory which
shone round the Christ-child's face — that face painted
as even in his fairest dreams he had not pictured it.
There was something so divine in the beauty of the
little face that it seemed to make the very attic
a holy place, and the painter fell upon his knees
as he gazed, his eyes almost blinded by the glory.
But was it only a picture, after all ? He looked
around. Where was he, and who were these kneeling
figures beside him ? This was not his great, bare garret
but a stable, and instead of the kings in their costly
robes, the space before the gentle Mother and her
Divine Child was filled with many figures crowding
round, some richly dressed, some in rags, old and
young, but each one bearing in his hand some gift to
offer to the Infant King. Strange gifts they were, some
of them ; surely the Christ-child would refuse such
mean offerings ? But no, His hand was stretched out
to receive even the commonest, and, strange to say,

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 111

some gifts that seemed the poorest, at His touch were
changed to such rare worth and beauty that they
shone like pure gold, while others that looked fit
offerings for a king, piles of gold and precious gems,
turned in an instant to dull lead and worthless pebbles.
' It is love that makes an offering really precious,'
whispered a voice in the painter's ear. ' Wherever
self creeps in, it spoils the most costly gift.'

But now the painter felt he was being pressed
forward, nearer and nearer, and only then it flashed
upon him that he had no offering to make, that he
alone of all the throng was kneeling there with empty
hands. He thought of his past life and searched to
find if he had any excuse to offer to the Child King.
No, it was Self he saw at every turn ; he had lived for
nothing else, and now his hands were empty.

It was not fear that made him bow his head while
the big sobs shook his shoulders. No fear could have
broken up the ice which for years had been gathering
round his frozen heart ; it was the thought that soon
the Blessed Child would smile on him, would stretch
out His little hand towards him, and that he would
have nothing to place there, no offering to make this
glad Epiphany morning. Every one except himself
had something. Even the little lame girl in old
tattered clothes, who knelt beside him, held clasped in
her arms an old wooden doll. He alone had nothing,
and every moment he was drawing nearer.

Only three people were in front of him now — a man,

112 STORIES OF ITALY

grasping a handful of gold, a poor woman carrying a
tiny baby, and the little lame child with her battered
doll.

The man walked confidently up, but lo ! when the
gold touched the outstretched hand, it lost its shining
glitter and was changed to dull grey lead. Strangely
enough, the man did not seem to notice that, for he
never glanced upward, and did not see the grieved look
upon the Christ-child's face.

Timidly now the poor woman came nearer, and
kneeling down, she whispered how she had nothing to
give, for the baby she held was a motherless waif, and
her offering had been spent in giving it food and
shelter. Nothing to give ? Ah ! but as the painter
looked nearer he saw in the Christ-child's hand a
golden scroll on which was written in shining char-
acters, ' Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.'

The little lame child came next, and she gazed up
with perfect trust and fearlessness as she held out the
old wooden doll. It had been her one treasured
possession, and it was very hard to part with it, but the
little sister had nothing for the festa and had so longed
for a real present. It was only an old doll, but it
shone as brightly as the costliest gifts, and perhaps
was counted by Him more precious than the gold,
frankincense, and myrrh.

Then the painter knew that it was his turn, and
humbly kneeling there he covered his face with his

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 113

hands, while from his lips the words fell, ' I am but a
poor man, too poor, Lord, to offer Thee anything, nor
have I ever had the opportunity of doing anything for
Thee.'

But the Child's voice bade him look up, and there
before him was another scene. It was his old garret
again, and a poor woman stood there holding a baby,
and two children were clinging to her skirts. He saw
the beseeching look in her eyes as she turned to go, and
heard the sound of the half-choked sob as the door
closed behind her. He started forward as if to
stop her, but the vision faded, and again the voice
sounded sorrowfully in his ear, ' Inasmuch as ye did
it not.'

The painter wakened with a start. He had been
dreaming, only dreaming, but the tears were wet on
his cheeks, and a new pain gnawed at his heart.
He could scarcely see the dim outline of his un-
finished picture as he groped for his hat and felt his
way to the door. Down the stone steps he hastened
and out into the silent night, with but one thought in
his mind. The streets were very quiet, but ere long
the bells would ring out their glad welcome to the
joyous festa day, and he must do his errand quickly.
It was not long before he reached the poor street he
sought, and climbed the steep stairs and stood before a
closed door. Hastily he felt for his wallet and wrapped
something round in a piece of paper, and then stooping
down he slipped it under the door, carefully pushing it

H

114 STORIES OF ITALY

in until the last scrap of paper had disappeared.
Then with a sigh of relief he turned to go, with such a
look of happiness upon his face as it had not worn for
years.

• •••••

' Get thee up, Brigida, dost thou not hear the
tells ? ' cried the mother. ' Hark ! we must not be
late in going to the church to-day, to greet the Gesu
Bambino.'

' Truly, mother,' answered Brigida, rubbing her
eyes, ' the night has seemed so short, and I dreamed
that I had been to greet Him already.' And her face
shone with such a happy smile that the mother
stooped down to kiss the sunshiny little face.

A shriek of joy from the other little bed made them
start, and then they both laughed with joy too. For
there sat Maria staring with big round eyes at the old
wooden doll which dangled from the end of the bed in
front of her.

' For me ? ' she shouted, stretching out her arms
towards it. Then as it seemed as if it must be too
good to be true, she cried again, ' For me ? '

' But yes, it is thy festa gift,' said Brigida, with a
wise little womanly shake of her head. ' I am growing
too old for playthings, and this is for thy very own.'

Even Beppino set up a feeble little crow of pleasure
as he listened to the shouts of delight which came from
Maria's bed as she clasped the old doll tight in her
arms, and the poor mother too smiled at the sound,

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 115

though her heart was heavy when she thought of the
long day before her, and the very small piece of bread
which was all she had to fill those hungry little mouths.

' Come, children,' she cried, ' let us hurry, or the
bells will stop before we can reach the church.'

She wrapped Beppino in her old shawl and helped to
fasten Maria's little frock, and then began to unlock the
door.

' See, mother,' said Brigida, stooping down and
lifting a piece of paper that lay there, ' some one has
pushed this under the door.'

' Only a little piece of dirty paper,' said the mother,
but as she opened it her face changed.

' Children, children,' she cried, 'it is a piece of
silver, it is money to buy all we need to-day.'

She stood and gazed at the scrap of paper and the
silver piece as if she were bewitched.

' Mammina,' shouted little Maria, tugging at her
dress. ' It is a gift from the Gesu Bambino for His
festa, is it not so ? '

' Now we shall have a fat fowl and sweet chestnuts,
and Beppino will have the good white milk he loves,'
cried Brigida, as she hopped about with joy, while
Maria joined in the dance.

But the mother did not seem to heed them. There
was an awed, thankful look upon her face as she held
the piece of money tightly in her hand.

' Hush, hush, children,' she said, ' make not so
much noise. There is something else to think of first.

116 STORIES OF ITALY

We must away to thank the Blessed Child for this His
birthday gift.'

s The streets were already filled with hurrying people,
and the air was gay with the sound of the glad bells,
as the little family wended its way to the square and
up the steps to the front of the great church. The
door stood open, and the mother had only to push the
heavy leathern curtains aside to let the little ones pass
in. But first she pulled her handkerchief over her
head, and laid two little white squares on the curly
heads of the two children.

Hand in hand they walked slowly up the great dim
church to where a glow of light shone from the candles
of a distant altar, and there on the pavement they
knelt in solemn reverence. Even the baby face of
Maria wore an awed look as she folded her hands
together and tried to say her Latin prayer, which
ended with her own words, ' And I thank Thee,
Little Lord Jesus, for this Thy birthday gift.'

•••••••

There was a stir in the world of Art, and men
crowded to the convent chapel to see the new picture,
about which every one was talking.

' Really a wonderful piece of work,' said the prior,
rubbing his hands with pride over his new possession.
' And to think that we never knew until now how
great a painter dwelt in our city ! '

' Ah, we knew him well enough,' said a brother
artist standing near, ' but never before has he painted

A TALE OF THE EPIPHANY 117

like this. His work was always good, but it lacked
life and soul.'

' It would seem he has found his soul at last then,'
said another, ' or how could he have painted a face
such as that ? ' and he pointed with a reverent gesture
to the face of the Christ-child, which looked out from
the picture with such divine beauty that even as
men beheld it they bowed their heads in reverence
before it.

' It is painted from no earthly model,' said the prior
thoughtfully, gazing at the great Epiphany picture.
' One feels that such a face could only have been
seen in some vision sent by God to gladden our dim
eyes.'

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF

IN the long-ago stormy days of the Middle Ages, when
might was right, and the weak were the prey of the
strong, in one of the mountainous districts of Italy
there lived a robber chief called Marziale.

When but a boy he had broken away from all
restraint and gone to live among the mountains, free
as the wild animals he loved. He was tall and strong,
active as a panther, and with a certain fierce beauty
which belongs to wild things. As time went on he
gathered companions around him, and together they
lived by robbery and plunder.

At first these young brigands only took what they
needed for their daily bread, a lamb or a kid from the
flocks grazing on the hillside, or a fresh batch of bread
from the frightened housewife's store. But as they
grew stronger and bolder they began to rob travellers
of their gold and merchandise, and even took the few
pence they could seize from the poor.

So powerful did this band of robbers become that
at last, with Marziale at their head, they attacked and
captured a splendid old castle which was built on the
mountain-side, and there took up their abode. This

118

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 119

was better than living among the caves and holes of
the rocks, and it was a safe place too, where they might
hide their plunder.

Night after night the great hall rang with the wild
noise of their rioting and revelling, until it seemed as if
the very demons which were said to haunt those hills
had come down to keep the robbers company.

In the daytime Marziale would look out from the
watch-tower, like a cat stealthily waiting for her prey.
All along the winding of the high-road his keen eye
would sweep, and woe betide any traveller who passed
unprotected along that way. It might be a rich noble
going to Rome, with a train of frightened servants ; it
might be a friar ambling along on the convent donkey,
or a poor woman laden with her market basket ; it
was all one to the robbers. Like some great bird of
prey, Marziale would swoop down suddenly with so
sure an aim and so sudden an onslaught that no one
had ever been known to escape his clutches. If the
traveller had money or goods, he was stripped of all
and suffered to depart ; but if he had nothing where-
with to satisfy the greed of the robber band, he was
driven up to the castle and thrust into the dungeons,
there to await possible ransom.

But while Marziale reigned like a king and boasted
that there was no one who could stand against him,
a silent enemy entered the castle and at his touch all
Marziale's great strength and power were brought low.
In the grip of a terrible fever Marziale tossed and

120 STORIES OF ITALY

groaned and grew weaker day by day. His rough
companions gave him but scant pity.

' He will die,' they said carelessly. ' We need no
longer trouble ourselves about him. Let us rather
decide now who shall be our chief when he is dead.'

In a little dark, bare room, without even a blanket
to cover him, and with no one to give him the water
he prayed for, they left Marziale to die.

But among the band of cruel, rough men there was
one kind heart that beat with pity for the suffering
chief. In the midst of that wilderness of poisonous
weeds one pure flower lifted its white cup as fresh and
untainted as if it had been reared in some fair lady's
bower. The daughter of one of the robber band, she
had known no other home than the old grey castle,
and no other companions than those men of evil
growth. But there she lived her lonely life apart, and
her gentle nature remained unharmed.

Beatrice, for that was the maiden's name, never
troubled herself about the wild life that went on
around her. But there was one thing she could not
bear. The sight of any creature suffering pain roused
all the anger and sorrow which dwelt in her pitiful
heart. Many a wounded animal had she saved and
tended back to life, many a trapped creature had she
set free. But most bitter of all to her was the thought
of those poor prisoners driven like sheep into the dark
dungeons. She spent many nights sobbing over the
thought of what they suffered, and she would clench

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 121

her hands and pray for the coming of the day when
she should be strong and able to set them free.

It was some time before she knew that the chief was
ill, and then she scarcely dared to think of entering
the little dark room. Every one feared that strong,
terrible man who had never been known to give
a kind word or gentle look even to his dog. But
she crept silently to his door and stood listening there.
A moan of pain reached her ears, and then the sound
of a feeble voice asking over and over again for
* Water, water.'

In a moment Beatrice forgot her fear, forgot that
it was the terrible captain who lay there. It was only
some one in pain, some one who needed her help, and
she swiftly opened the door and went in.

' Water, water,' came the cry again from the poor,
dry throat, and in a few minutes Marziale's weary head
was resting on her strong arm, as Beatrice held a
goblet of cool fresh water to the parched lips. Then
she brought her own blanket and wrapped it round him
and placed a pillow under his head.

From the first moment she ceased to feel any fear
of this man. She tended and nursed him as she had
nursed many a wild animal which she had found
caught in some trap on the mountain-side.

And so, instead of dying, Marziale began daily to
grow better, and ere long the fever left him and his
strength began to return.

It was one day when the joy of life once more was

122 STORIES OF ITALY

stirring in his veins that the robber chief called
Beatrice to sit by him.

' Tell me, little maid,' he said, ' why hast thou
done all this for me ? '

' Because thou wast in pain, and needed my help,'
replied Beatrice promptly.

' By heaven, thou shalt have thy reward,' said the
chief. ' When those dogs left me to die, thou alone
didst have it in thy heart to care what should become
of me. Tell me what reward shall I give thee ? Nothing
thou shalt ask will I deny thee, even if it be all the
treasure I have heaped together in my hidden hoards.'

Beatrice did not answer at once. She sat with her
chin leaning on her hand as she thoughtfully gazed out
of the little barred window where the swallows
swooped and twittered as they built their nests be-
neath the eaves. Those free and happy birds, it was
a pleasure even to watch them. Oh, if only all might
share their freedom and joy, and all suffering and pain
be banished !

' I do not want thy gold,' she said at last slowly,
' for I seek no reward. But if indeed thou dost seek to
pleasure me, give me the lives of those poor prisoners
who even now are sighing in the dungeons beneath.'

Marziale looked at her in amazement.

' What are they to thee ? ' he asked. ' What should
it matter to thee whether they go free or die in their
dungeons ? But thou shalt have thy way, for no man
has ever said that Marziale broke his word.'

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 123

Beatrice bent down and gently touched one of the
great wasted hands with her lips. She found no
words to speak, but her thanks shone out of her eyes.

Marziale drew back his hand quickly, and muttered
almost roughly that a strong man's hand was more
fitted for work than foolish child's play. But his eyes
watched her as she went to and fro about her work,
and her happiness made him feel strangely content.

' Beatrice,' he began next day, ' before long I shall
be myself again and take my place as chief. Then my
hounds will once more come to heel. Thou hast
chosen thy reward and hast had thy way. But I
would choose a way as well, and it is this. Thou, too,
shalt be at the head of this band, as thou alone art
worthy. Say, then, little maid, wilt thou accept my
choice and be my wife ? '

He spoke eagerly, and a flush was upon his thin
face, so that Beatrice feared the fever had returned.

' Yes, yes,' she said soothingly, ' I will do all that
thou dost wish.'

Then she stood at the window and began to tell him
how beautiful the outside world was looking. How
spring had begun to touch the trees with her dainty
green finger-tips, how many swallows had returned, how
the corn was sprouting and the anemones were begin-
ning to show purple and scarlet under the olive-trees.
He scarcely seemed to listen, but her voice soothed him,
and presently she knew he had fallen asleep.

' He will soon grow strong now,' she said to herself

124 STORIES OF ITALY

softly, ' and when he is well he will quickly forget this
idle fancy.'

But it was no idle fancy on the part of Marziale, and
although his strength came back and he once more
took command of the robber band, he did not forget
his promise as Beatrice had expected.

' We must wait until we can lay hands upon some
priest,' he said. ' The first that we can capture shall
be brought up to the castle that he may wed us duly
and in order.'

Time went on, and Beatrice almost felt as if it had
all been a dream, for the old evil days of riot and
plunder returned to the castle. Marziale was fiercer
and more daring than ever, and Beatrice seldom saw
him. Only the best room in the castle was now set
aside for her use, and by Marziale's orders she was
treated with every respect, and no one dared to molest
her.

So she lived her old, lonely life apart, and each day
she watched from the turret window the band of
robbers ride out to rob and plunder, with Marziale at
their head.

' How strong and brave he is ! ' she would cry
proudly ; ' no one can match him in strength and
courage. And yet, methinks I loved him better when
he lay so weak and helpless and needed all my care.
All wild things grow gentle when they suffer, though
one would not have them suffer always.'

At nights the noise of feasting and brawling was

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 125

louder than ever, but Beatrice had learned to pay but
little heed to it. There came a night, however, when
the noise was so great that she thought something
unusual must be happening, and she stole downstairs
and slipped into the banqueting-hall.

The reason of the noise was not far to seek. A poor,
frightened old priest stood there, cowering and defence-
less, while the savage crew of robbers made sport of
him and roughly ill-treated him.

Beatrice's eyes blazed with indignation. She sprang
forward and placed her hand on the arm of Marziale's
chair.

' Cowards ! ' her voice rang fearlessly out. ' Twenty
strong men to one poor weak old man. Shame on you !
shame ! Brave and fearless warriors, to make war
on unarmed old men ! Next time, perchance, it will
be women and little children.'

A hoarse growl of rage like distant thunder broke
out at her words. Marziale, with naming eyes, sprang
to his feet. Scarce knowing what he did in his anger,
he raised his arm and struck Beatrice to the ground.

In the noise and confusion that followed Beatrice
was carried up to her room, and the old priest was
dragged off and thrust into the deepest dungeon of the
castle.

All was quiet when Beatrice came to herself. The
cool night wind blew through the open window, and
the moonlight made bright patches of silver on the
stone floor. She sat up and tried to think. Ah,

126 STORIES OF ITALY

that poor old man ! She had not helped him, but had
rather done harm by her sudden burst of anger. She
must think of some other way, if yet there was time.

At the door she stood and listened awhile, but not a
sound broke the silence. The whole castle was in
darkness save where the moonlight streamed through
the barred windows. Turning back, she gathered up
her blanket and pillow in her arms and then crept
quietly down the winding stair and along the gloomy
passages until she came to the banqueting-hall. Here
again she listened, but only the sound of deep breath-
ing was to be heard. She knew the ways of the
robbers and their chief. When once they slumbered
they were not lightly wakened.

Carefully then she threaded her way between the
sleeping forms until she came to the head of the room
where Marziale lay stretched out in his great chair.
Yes, here was what she sought. The great bunch of
keys hung at his girdle fastened by a thong of leather.
With deft fingers Beatrice noiselessly unfastened the
keys, only stopping once when the robber chief
moved uneasily in his sleep. Then she took some food
from the table and a pitcher of water, and like a little
grey ghost she glided out as noiselessly as she had
entered.

Down in the dungeon, meanwhile, the old priest
knelt. He was sore and aching in every limb, and he
could not sleep. The damp air seemed to choke him,
and his throat was parched with thirst.

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 127

' O Lord, how long ? ' he cried, and as he knelt
and prayed, suddenly it seemed as if a vision had been
sent to comfort him. He thought the door of the
dungeon swung slowly open and there stood an angel
looking down on him with pitying eyes. A halo of
soft, flame-like light shone round her head, and in one
hand she held a goblet of cool, crystal water.

' Santa Maria, art thou come thyself to answer my
poor prayers,' cried the old man in a trembling voice,

* or is this but a vision ? '

The angel smiled, and a strong human hand was laid
on the old man's shoulder.

' I am no vision,' she said, ' I am only a poor maiden
who would gladly help thee. I have brought thee food
and drink and covering to keep thee warm.'

Then she carried in the load of blankets and her own
soft pillow, and prepared a bed for him to lie on.
Gently raising him from the cold stones, she held the
cool water to his lips, and gave him food, until his
strength began to return. Not until then did she
begin to question him.

' Hast thou friends without ? ' she asked anxiously.

* And will they offer a ransom for thee ? It is thy only
hope. Marziale, the man into whose power thou hast
fallen, is the strongest man in all the world, and no one
can stand against his will.'

' My child,' replied the old priest in a calm, un-
troubled voice, ' my Master is stronger than Marziale,
and can deliver me if He will.'

128 STORIES OF ITALY

' Who is thy master, and what is his name ? ' asked
Beatrice eagerly.

' My Master is the King of Heaven, and men call Him
the Christ,' answered the old man reverently.

Then in a weak, low voice he began to tell Beatrice
all his Master's story. The wonderful birth heralded
by the angels ; the brave, unselfish life ; the cruel death
and triumphant resurrection. And as he spoke his
voice grew strong and clear, and a light as if from
heaven shone on his suffering, weary face.

Beatrice listened as if spell-bound. She had never
heard anything like this before.

' Where is thy Master to be found ? ' she asked.
' Tell me quickly, for I must tell all this to Marziale.
He will surely take service under such a King.'

The old priest shook his head sadly.

' His service is not what thou thinkest, my
daughter,' he said. ' And why dost thou take such
an interest in this robber chief ? I myself saw him
strike thoe to the ground.'

' I had angered him, and it was but a small matter,'
said Beatrice carelessly. ' To thee, perhaps, he
seemeth cruel and rough, but I love him, and ere long
I shall marry him. But see, the dawn is breaking, and
I dare stay no longer to talk with thee. To-morrow
I will come again.'

The sun had risen, and the busy stir of morning
sounded in the castle before Marziale moved uneasily
in his seat and stretched himself. He was still half

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 129

asleep as his hands felt for the keys which always
hung at his girdle, but failing to find them he grew
alert and wide-awake in a moment. Who had dared
to meddle with those keys ? He jumped to his feet
and looked about him, fiercely seeking for the thief.

But the room was empty, and as he looked around
the only thing his eye lighted on was a little white
figure lying fast asleep in the broad window-seat, with
the huge bunch of keys hanging loosely in her hands.

The anger died out of Marziale's eyes as he stood
looking down on the sleeping face, but even as he
looked she awoke and gazed up smiling into his face.

' So, thou hast been at thy tricks again,' he said, as
he grimly pointed at the keys upon her lap.

But Beatrice was not in the least ashamed or afraid.
She jumped up and laughed with glee as she jingled
the great bunch of keys before him in tune with her
laughter.

' Come, come,' she said, ' never heed the keys and
look not so grim. I have a wonderful tale to tell
thee,' and she dragged him down on to the seat next
to her, and began eagerly to tell him all that she had
done, and all that the old priest had told her.

At first Marziale was impatient and inclined to be
angry, but by-and-bye he grew interested and listened
intently.

' I will go to the old man myself and hear this
wonderful story,' he said at last.

Long and silently the robber chief sat and listened

130 STORIES OF ITALY

as the old man told his tale. It was indeed a wonderful
story, but, above all, something in Marziale's heart
seemed to tell him that it was not only wonderful but
true. And if it was indeed true, how black and
hideous must his life seem in the eyes of that calm,
brave warrior King.

' Old man,' he cried at last, ' show me a way by
which I may seek pardon and take service under this
King of kings.'

' There is but one way,' answered the old man
solemnly. ' Confess thy sins one by one, and per-
chance He may pardon thee.'

But as Marziale knelt on the cold, damp dungeon
floor and began to confess all the evil he had done, a
cold horror crept over the old priest. It was so
terrible even to listen to the wild tale of sin that the
very hair rose from his head and he could only gaze
in terror and dismay at the man who knelt there
telling of such dreadful deeds. Surely a demon could
not have a worse tale to tell.

There was a deep silence when Marziale had finished,
and the old priest buried his face in his hands as if he
dared not look upon such a monster.

' Oh, horrible, horrible ! ' he cried. ' Thou hast
indeed sold thy soul to the Evil One. There is no hope
of pardon for such crimes as these.'

Then a terrible dark cloud seemed to fall on Marziale
and to shut out all light from his soul. He could
neither eat nor drink nor sleep, and all day long he

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 131

groaned in deep despair. Day followed day and
brought no light to the black darkness of his soul, and
all the time Beatrice never left him. By his side she
knelt and tried to pray for pardon, but she could find
no words, and the sobs choked her as she watched his
dumb misery.

At last, when the robber chief was wasted away to
a gaunt shadow, and he had scarcely strength even to
moan, she heard a faint whisper come from his lips,
and bending down she caught the word ' forgive.'

' Oh, come quickly ! ' she cried to the old priest who
waited in a room near by, 'he is praying, and surely the
King will pardon.'

' There can be no forgiveness for such as he,' said
the old priest sternly. But Beatrice took no heed.

' He must, he must be forgiven,' she cried, ' and thou
must bid him hope.'

But when together they reached the little chamber
it was too late for any word of comfort to reach that
poor, despairing soul. Marziale lay stretched out
dead upon the floor.

Very bitter were the tears which Beatrice shed, for
they came from a broken heart. But in the midst of
her great sorrow there was one ray of light which
pierced through the gloom. Marziale had prayed for
pardon, and surely God had forgiven. The King was
more merciful than His servants.

But the old priest could not share that comfort,
and he gave his orders mournfully that the chief

132 STORIES OF ITALY

should not be buried in any holy ground, but that a
grave should be digged in the courtyard of the castle

All the robber band gathered round the grave,
and Beatrice, white and calm, knelt beside the body of
the dead chief. The old priest talked long and
earnestly to that grim company, and pointed out the
terrible example of their leader, and bade them one
and all take heed and repent while yet there was
time.

But as he spoke Beatrice did not seem to listen,
but lifted her head and looked up into the sky with an
eager, wondering expression in her eyes. Her earnest
gaze drew other eyes to look upward, too, and a great
silence fell upon them all.

A spot of light shone in the blue above, which
gradually grew whiter and whiter until it took the
form of a dove. Nearer and nearer it flew till it
hovered above their heads and then gently descended.
The wondering company saw that it held in its beak
a little golden leaf or tablet, and this it gently laid
upon the dead man's lips. Then, with scarce a flutter
of its wings, up again it flew, up and away until it was
lost in the blue haze of the summer sky.

Awe-struck and with trembling hands Beatrice
lifted the little gold leaf and saw in shining letters the
blessed words ' Pardon and peace.' The white dove
had brought the message to comfort and assure her,
for the King had indeed forgiven, and Marziale was
pardoned.

MARZIALE, THE ROBBER CHIEF 133

Then the old priest knelt down and humbly prayed
for forgiveness for himself. Never again did he doubt
God's mercy, and never again was he heard to say
that any man's sins were too great to shut him out
from the hope of pardon and peace.

THE ANGELS' ROBE

' WHY art thou crying, bambina mia ? ' asked the
grandmother kindly as Angelina crept close to the old
woman's chair and hid her little wet face in the rough
woollen skirt. ' Ah ! but I can guess without any
words. It is hard, is it not, to be left at home to
look after little Giovanino and the old grandmother,
while all the rest have gone to the great city to see the
festa. And it is hard, too, never to have a pair of
shoes or a bright new handkerchief nor any pretty
necklace such as other little maidens wear.'

' O Nonna,' said Angelina, lifting her tear-stained
face, ' how canst thou know it all ? I think the
blessed saints must tell thee all my secrets.'

The old woman smiled and stroked the little brown
head.

' It needs no telling to guess such things,' she said.
' It needs but the old memory of what another little
girl used to feel to make me understand what goes on
in thy little head. See here, bring thy stool and sit
down close to me, and while the bambinetto sleeps so
soundly in his cradle I will tell thee a story with a
wonderful secret which will help thee to bear all thy
troubles.

ISi

THE ANGELS' ROBE 135

' It was in this very village and in this very house
that there lived, long years ago, a little maid, whose
name, like thine, was Angelina. She was but eight
years old when she learned the wonderful secret of
which I shall tell thee, so thou seest she was not very
old and could not yet have been very wise.

' She was not much like her name, this little Angelina.
When we think of angels we picture them tall and
beautiful, with golden hair and wearing wonderful
robes of white, while Angelina was short and square,
with dark, straight hair and a little round face, which,
though it looked honest and pleasant, could never be
called beautiful. And then her clothes ! How unlike
they were to the white robes of the angels which one
sees in the holy pictures. She had, like thee, an old
blue petticoat faded into so pale a colour, that only
the patches showed how gay the blue had once been.
Her camicetta had all its red washed out, so that it only
kept the faint colour of the apricot, and the old orange
handkerchief which she tied over her dark hair was
little more than a rag.

' And if there was one thing more than another that
Angelina loved and longed for, it was to have fine
clothes. Once or twice since she had grown old enough
for the walk, she had gone with her father to the
distant town, built high up on the hill. She had
trotted along the winding white road and climbed up
to the city gates and entered what seemed to her a
paradise.

136 STORIES OF ITALY

' For there, in the churches, she saw wonderful
pictures of blue-robed Madonnas, and angels with
gold-embroidered robes. And almost better still, she
would catch glimpses of noble ladies as they came out
of their palaces and stepped into their carriages.
How her eyes would shine at the sight of the flowing
silks, rich velvets, and dainty lace. She felt as if she
had had a glimpse of heaven. Of course all these soft,
fine garments of wondrous colour were only fit for noble
ladies— for the Madonna and holy angels. But oh !
how she longed sometimes, when she sat at home
sewing a new patch on the old blue petticoat, for
something new and bright. If she could have even a
new handkerchief, or a little necklace such as
Margherita who lived next door so proudly wore on
Sundays ! The envious tears filled Angelina's eyes
when she thought of Margherita, who wore shoes on
festa days and carried a white handkerchief with her
prayer-book when she went to Mass.

' It always made the child cross and impatient when
such thoughts filled her head, and one day she had
even slapped Tommaso's little chubby hands when in
his play he had torn the yellow handkerchief off her
head and made another rent in the faded border. But
when he sobbed with hurt feelings and smarting
knuckles she took him in her arms and comforted him
again, for she was really a kind-hearted little maid.
Then she told him stories of all the grand times that
were coming when she would have as many gay silk

THE ANGELS' ROBE 137

handkerchiefs as she wanted, and he should have a
little green hat with a long red feather and a golden
clasp.

' The children always loved to listen to Angelina's
stories. She seemed to open a little door and take
them into a beautiful new world where every one wore
gay clothes and splendid jewels, where the children
played with golden toys, and the Madonna and
saints looked on with the shining halos round their
heads.

' " Where dost thou fill thy head with all that
nonsense ? " her mother would ask. " Come, there is
no time for idle tales, when so much work is waiting
to be done."

' There was, indeed, little time for idling now that
Angelina was old enough to help in the house. There
was Tommaso to be washed and dressed and kept out
of mischief, the baby to be carried about until he
slept, and the sheep to be tended on the hillside and
led safely home at night.

' Then came a day when there was quite a stir in the
village, and Angelina came home at dusk breathless
with the news she had to tell.

' The great lord who owned the castle close by was
coming home, they said, and would bring with him a
beautiful young bride. Many gay nobles and ladies
would also come in his train, and the procession would
pass close to the village next day. It was to be a
great festa for every one, and already they were

138 STORIES OF ITALY

beginning to weave garlands of flowers and green

leaves.

' " Well," said Angelina's mother, when she heard
the great news, " thou hast been a good child of late,
and to-morrow thou shalt have a whole holiday to see
the show."

' The little maid could scarcely sleep that night, her
head was so full of pleasure and excitement. There
was only one little cloud to shadow her happiness. If
only she had something gay to wear, something that
would show it was a festa day ! But all the wishing in
the world wouldn't buy her a new handkerchief or
take away the patches on her petticoat, so she tried
not to think of it, and by-and-bye she fell asleep.

' The next day she woke very early and crept
quietly out of doors before any one was awake. What
if it should be raining ! But no, the sun was beginning
to rise clear and bright and the mists were rolling back.
All was fair for the great holiday.

' Angelina's little bare feet danced along with joy
as she went down the path and scrambled up the
banks in search of wild flowers. Before long she had
filled her hands with sweet violets and sat down
contentedly to tie them into bunches. There was no
need to hurry home, for this was a holiday, and there
was no work to do.

' But presently she heard her mother call to her,
and she went quickly towards the house, for the voice
sounded sharp and troubled.

THE ANGELS' ROBE 139

' " Where hast thou been, child ? " said her mother,
who sat rocking the baby in her arms and looking
down at it with an anxious face. " I have been calling
and calling for thee. The little one is ill, I fear. See
how hot and flushed he is, and I cannot stop his wail-
ing. Thou must go off to the town as fast as thy
feet can carry thee. I have no one else to send.
The good doctor there will give thee the medicine he
needs."

' " O mother," burst from Angelina's lips, " but
this is the festa day, and I was to have a holiday to see
the grand procession of lords and ladies."

' " I wish thou hadst a wiser head, and cared less for
gay sights and grand clothes," said her mother sharply.
" But to-day there can be no holiday for thee. Thou
must be gone at once, and even so thou wilt scarcely
be back before nightfall, the way is so long. But see
that thou dost not linger and that the medicine is
carried carefully home."

' Angelina did not answer, but listened silently while
her mother gave her the directions how to find the
doctor when once she should reach the town. Then
she turned obediently and began to go down the steep
mountain path that led to the high-road below.

' But though she seemed so quiet and obedient, her
heart was full of bitter disappointment and angry
thoughts.

' As long as she was in sight of the little house she
walked swiftly on, but by-and-bye, when she reached

140 STORIES OF ITALY

the white, dusty high-road, her feet began to drag
slowly along until at last she stopped and sat down on
the grass at the wayside.

' It really was very hard that the baby should fall ill
that one day of all others. It was very hard that she
must fetch the medicine. It was very hard that she
should never have a holiday, but always work from
morning until night, and have such poor clothes to
wear.

' The sun was shining brightly now, but there was no
sunshine in Angelina's face. A sullen, dark cloud had
gathered there. She pushed the white dust to and fro
with her little brown toes, and then began to make
now a round O, now a cross with her great toe, as if
that was the most important work in the world.

' " I wish," she went on, muttering gloomily to her-
self, " I wish I had a pair of shoes. When I am always
sent so far to fetch whatever is needed, it wears out all
the soles of my feet."

' She stopped drawing crosses and turned up one
foot to see if there were any holes or worn-out places.
It was quite a disappointment to find the sole as hard
and firm as a piece of tanned leather.

' Then a gentler look began to steal over the sullen
little face, and she looked soberly down at the crosses
in the dust. They reminded her of the words of the
kind old priest when he had explained to her the
meaning of a cross and had bidden her always try to
do her duty as cheerfully as possible. In a moment

THE ANGELS' ROBE 141

the clouds broke and the sunshine once more shone
in Angelina's eyes.

' " To think," she said, " that I should care more
for fine sights than the poor bambinetto ! But he
shall have his medicine now as quickly as I can
fetch it."

' She started at a steady trot along the road, eager
to make up for lost time, and thinking only now of the
sick baby and poor, anxious mother at home. She
had many a mile to go before she came to the hill on
which the town was built, and then there was a weary
climb before she reached the city gates. The little
maid was indeed very hot and very tired by the time
she had done her mother's bidding and could turn her
face homewards carrying the precious medicine bottle
rolled up safely in her apron. She never stopped to
look at the shops or the gay crowds to-day, but
as she passed a little quiet church she slipped in
and knelt for a moment in a dim corner before her
favourite picture of the Madonna and white-robed
angels.

' Very carefully then she unwrapped the precious
little bottle from her apron and held it out in both
hands.

' " Mary Mother," she prayed, " for the sake of
the Gesu Bambino, bless our bambinetto and grant
that this medicine may make him better."

' The Madonna looked down with such kind eyes
that Angelina was sure that all would be well, and

142 STORIES OF ITALY

it was with a happy heart that she left the church
and started on her homeward way.

' The sun was beginning to set when at last Angelina
came in sight of the little village and turned from
the high-road to climb the mountain pathway.
She was very tired, and just then she knocked her
foot against a great stone that lay in the way. The
pain was sharp, and she stopped for a moment to rest
by the roadside to rub the place that hurt so badly.

' She was bending down to touch the foot just to see
how much it was hurt when something bright caught
her eye shining there in the dust. It was something
that shone as brightly as a star. She stretched out
her hand and lifted it up and then gave a cry of
surprise and delight. It was a beautiful gold brooch
set with shining jewels. The light that looked like
a star came from the white stone in the middle, and
round it was a circle of stones blue as the summer
sky.

' For a moment Angelina gazed at the beautiful
thing lying in her hand, as if she could not believe it
was real. She rubbed her eyes to be sure she was
awake and not dreaming. Then she looked upwards
as if she thought it must have fallen from the sky.
Surely such a beautiful thing could not belong to
earth ?

' Then in a moment she guessed where it had
come from. There were marks of carriage wheels
and many feet in the white dust of the high-road.

THE ANGELS' ROBE 143

The lords and ladies had surely passed by that way,
and one of the beautiful ladies must have dropped this
treasure.

' But even as these thoughts came rushing through
her mind, her hand closed tightly over the brooch.
She knew that it did not belong to her, and that she
must at once show it to her mother, and then take
it to the old priest, who would return it to the beautiful
lady.

' But oh ! if only she might keep it, just for a
few hours. It could do no harm if she hid it for one
night and looked at it once more in the morning.
The longer she looked at it the more she felt that she
could not part with it at once, and so at last she
pinned it inside a fold of her camicetta, and when
it was quite hidden she got up and limped slowly
home.

' The mother was standing watching for the child
as Angelina came up the path.

' " Thou art a good little messenger," she said,
" and hast done thine errand quickly. After all,
though, there was no need for such great haste, for
the little one is better."

' " Ah ! " said Angelina, " I knew the Madonna
would not forget him."

' Then she stopped, and a troubled look came into her
eyes. Somehow she felt ashamed to think of the kind,
gentle look upon the Madonna's face. Would the
Madonna smile upon her so kindly now ?

144 STORIES OF ITALY

' " Thou art tired, child," said her mother ; " come
in and rest. I have saved thy dinner for thee."

' But Angelina was not very hungry and did not
seem inclined to rest.

' The walk has overtired thee," said her mother
kindly. " Go now to bed and sleep soundly until the
morning."

' Angelina crept into bed and shut her eyes as if she
were asleep. But her head was full of busy thoughts.
She had slipped the wonderful brooch under her pillow
and lay holding it with one little hot hand. Would
the Madonna and the Gesu Bambino be angry with
her for hiding this treasure ? But whatever hap-
pened she could not part with it. She thought if
she might only keep it she would never be unhappy
again. What did it matter if her clothes were old
and patched and she had no shoes, if only she might
always keep the beautiful brooch. So at last she
fell asleep dreaming of stars that shone in a blue
sky.

' Next morning she woke with the remembrance
that something wonderful had happened. Then she
quickly thrust her hand under her pillow to feel
if the brooch were really there. She dared scarcely
look at it, but once more pinned it carefully in the
folds of her dress and went softly out of doors.

' When she reached the shelter of the olive-trees
and had seated herself behind one of the old, gnarled
grey trunks, she felt at last that it was safe to take

THE ANGELS' ROBE 145

out her treasure. Oh, how beautiful it was ! Almost
more beautiful in the clear morning light than she
had dreamed it could be. She held it up to catch the
sunbeams that came sliding through the silver screen
of the olive leaves, then she pinned it in the front of
her old red camicetta, and sat silent with clasped
hands and burning cheeks.

' What visions of splendour filled her head. She
was no longer a little, ragged, bare-footed child sitting
in an olive wood, but a grand lady in a flowing silken
gown and scarlet pointed shoes. All around her
were other gay ladies, but they all looked with envy
upon her, and pointed at the wonderful star with its
circle of blue, which shone upon her breast.

' But there was not much time for day-dreams,
and soon the brooch was hidden away again and
Angelina went back to her work. Strange to say, she
did not feel as happy as usual that day. Nothing
seemed to go well. She was impatient with the
children and careless about her work, which made her
mother scold. But worst of all was the strange,
frightened feeling that seemed to choke her when
she saw the old priest come slowly up the path towards
the house. How glad she had always been to see
him before. Why was it that now she only wished
she might run away, and hide her burning cheeks ?

' Even before the old man began to speak she
guessed why he had come. But she listened eagerly
while he told her mother how one of the ladies at the

K

146 STORIES OF ITALY

castle had lost a valuable brooch and how it was
thought it might be lying along the road. Of course, if
any one found it, they would bring it at once to him,
but he wanted all the children to look carefully for it.

' " The little ones have such sharp eyes," he said.
And then patting Angelina's head he added, " And
this little maid has, I know, a special eye for beautiful
things."

' Then he asked how little Giovannino fared, and
smiled down very kindly on Angelina when he heard
the tale of her lost holiday and the long walk to fetch
the medicine.

' " There is a special blessing on feet that cheer-
fully run errands for others," he said. " I think the
angels make golden shoes for such little feet."

' But Angelina's heart was heavy, and the kindly
words of the old priest only seemed to make her more
unhappy. If his eyes could but see what was hidden
in the folds of her dress, would he still look so kindly
on her ?

' There was much talk among the village folk about
the missing brooch. They searched for it high and
low, but not a trace of it could be found. Often when
she listened to the talk Angelina's little guilty heart
would thump so loudly that she wondered every one
around her did not hear the beating noise.

' She scarcely dared take the beautiful thing out
now to look at it, and she almost began to wish she
had never seen it. Night after night she sobbed her-

THE ANGELS' ROBE 147

self to sleep, and those tears seemed gradually to
wash away all the longing to keep the forbidden
treasure.

' Then at last she could bear it no longer, and
very early one morning, before the village was astir,
she found her way to the old priest's house. She
waited patiently outside the door until the church
bell began to ring, and then she saw him come out and
cross the path towards the church.

' At first the old man did not notice the child, but
presently a gentle pull at his cassock made him look
down.

' " Why, what is the matter, little one ? " he said.
" Is the bambinetto ill again ? "

' But Angelina only shook her head. She was
sobbing so bitterly that she could not speak.

' " Come and tell me all about it," said the kind
old voice, and he took her hand and led her back
into the house.

' It was a long story and Angelina could not tell
it very clearly, but the old priest understood. He
took the brooch from the little trembling hand
and locked it carefully away. Then he sat looking
at the child with grave, kind eyes.

' " Ah," he said, " thou hast learned the lesson
that fine things cannot make thee happy, and an
honest and clear conscience is worth all the jewels
in the world. It matters but little if we wear old
and patched earthly garments, if only our heavenly

148 STORIES OF ITALY

robe is kept pure and stainless. But now as thou
hast done thy best to right the wrong, I will not
punish thee. Only remember the lesson thou hast
learnt."

' What a different world it seemed to Angelina
as she knelt in the quiet little church that sunny
morning listening to the old priest's voice as he
chanted the service. She was no longer ashamed to
think of the Madonna and the holy angels. It
seemed as if a dark cloud had been rolled away.

' And then as she knelt a strange thing happened.

' She thought one of those same white-robed
angels stood at her side, and bending down gently
took her hand and led her up a flight of golden steps
until they came to a shining room. There other
angels sat at work, and before them lay a beautiful
shining white robe, sewed with pearls and precious
jewels, more exquisite than anything Angelina had
ever dreamed of. And as she gazed spell-bound one
of the angels put beside it a pair of little golden
shoes.

' " These are for the little feet that are never
too tired to run errands for others," said the angel
with a gentle smile.

' " We have sewn her robe with every kind act
and unselfish thought that we could gather," said
another, " for we must make it fit to be worn in
the presence of the King. But alas ! there is here
one stain we cannot cover."

THE ANGELS' ROBE 149

' Angelina hung her head and a great sob choked
her, but the angel who held her hand looked down
with a comforting smile.

" See," the angel said, " I have brought some-
thing that will quite cover the stain."

' The angel held out an open hand, and there on
the palm lay some wondrous gleaming pearls, large
enough to cover the ugly mark upon the robe.

" Tears of repentance and sorrow," said the angel ;
" the robe is not spoilt after all."

' Then the vision faded and Angelina found she
was kneeling in the church and the service was
ended.

' But she never forgot the secret of that heavenly
robe. What did it matter now if she had only old
worn clothes and a faded handkerchief ? Her robe
was in the angels' keeping, and her only care would
be to see that nothing should ever again stain its
pure beauty.'

The old grandmother's voice ceased, and little
Angelina looked up with an awed light in her eyes.

' Of course, after she saw the angels' robe she
would never care if her petticoat was old and her feet
were bare,' she said thoughtfully.

' No,' said her grandmother, ' for she knew that
some day she would wear those golden shoes.'

' And was she very, very careful never to stain the
robe again ? ' asked Angelina.

A sad look came into the old grandmother's eyes.

150 STORIES OF ITALY

' She tried her very best,' she said, ' but I fear there
were many stains that spoilt the angels' work.'

' But there would always be the sorry tears to
cover them,' said Angelina, ' and the kind angel would
gather them safely as they fell.'

' Ah, yes,' said the grandmother softly, ' thou art
right, little one. There is no white robe that is not
sewn with pearls.'

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE

THERE were many enemies outside the gates of the
fair City of Flowers, and many a war did she wage
with envious neighbours, but even now, when quietness
reigned without, there was little peace to be found
within. The two great families of the Buondalmonti
and the Bardi kept the city in constant turmoil.
They were both strong and powerful, proud and
overbearing, and though the quarrel between the
families was so old that scarcely one of them re-
membered what it was about, still they hated each
other with hearty, unquestioning hatred, just as their
fathers had done before them.

Of course the servants and followers of the different
houses kept up the quarrel even more fiercely than
their masters. Whenever, by evil chance, they hap-
pened to meet in some narrow street, neither would
give way to let the other pass, and there would begin
at once a fierce fight and a call for help until the whole
quarter rang with the uproar. ' A Bardi, a Buondal-
monti ' was shouted from every side, while all friends
and enemies hastened to join in the fray.

But, after all, the Florentines were used to quarrels
and bloodshed, and they never allowed such things

151

152 STORIES OF ITALY

to interfere with their holidays and merry-makings.
So it was that on the Feast of San Giovanni, when
this story begins, all Florence was blithe and gay
and bent on pleasure, though the prudent did not for-
get to carry a weapon handy in case of need.

From early morning the bells had rung out.
Coloured cloths and gay carpets hung out from
every window. In the great square the city banners
were floating in the breeze, and throngs of country-
people came hurrying through the gates, all dressed
in holiday attire. The churches were hung with
crimson silk and velvet hangings, and a blaze of
candles lit up each altar in honour of the festa of the
patron saint of Florence.

It was in the church of San Giovanni that the
principal service of the day was held, and in the crowd
of nobles who thronged the place, many a fair young
face was to be seen, beautiful as the flowers that give
the city its name. But there was one face more lovely
than all the rest, or at least so it seemed to a young
man who stood leaning against a pillar, with eyes intent
upon a maiden who knelt close by. She was tall and
slender, with a wealth of golden hair in which shone the
soft gleam of pearls cunningly twisted among the braids.
Her white silk robe edged with shining embroideries
hung in long, straight folds around her, and gave
her the look of some fair, slender lily. But it was the
beauty of her face and her innocent, star-like eyes that
kept the young Ippolito Buondalmonti spell-bound,

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 153

and made him forget to kneel and join in the prayers
with the other worshippers.

Who could she be ? Ippolito knew most of the
noble Florentine ladies by sight, but he had never
seen this fair maid before. As he stood gazing, there
was a stir among the crowd, and with a start the
young man realised that the service was over and people
were preparing to leave the church. Quickly he
elbowed his way till he reached the great door and
then waited until his fair vision should come out.

He had not long to wait, and then it was an easy
matter to keep her in sight, for there were so many
people hurrying along the streets that no one could
notice if she was followed. Darting in and out, some-
times close and sometimes further off, he never lost
sight of her until she and her companion turned into
the narrow, gloomy street of the Via dei Bardi, and he
saw her about to mount the steps of a grim old
palace there.

Ippolito hurried forward and stood at the side of
the door, and as she turned her head their eyes met.
With deep reverence the young man lifted his plumed
cap and bared his head. The maiden started and for
a moment looked almost afraid. Her companion
had gone on in front and had noticed nothing, so the
maiden looked timidly again at the handsome young
man who made such a brave show standing there in
his sky-blue embroidered doublet and mantle and
silken hose. Then a half -mischievous smile lit up

154 STORIES OF ITALY

her face, and although she knew full well that no well-
brought-up maiden should take notice of a stranger,
be he never so handsome, she waved her hand and
ran lightly up the steps after her companion.

There were several loiterers in the street, and
Ippolito turned to a man who stood idly leaning
against the wall, munching his midday meal of black
bread and onions.

' Canst thou tell me what palace that is ? ' asked
Ippolito, pointing to the grim old doorway where his
vision had disappeared.

' Art thou a Florentine and yet dost not know the
palace of the Bardi ? ' answered the man. ' Why,
thou wilt be asking next where dwell the Buondal-
monti ? '

Ippolito started and bit his lips. If this was indeed
true, all his new-born hopes were dashed to the ground.
If the maiden belonged to the hated family of the
Bardi, there was but little chance they would ever
meet, for never was the feud between the families
fiercer than now.

It did not take long to find out all that he wished
to know, and, alas, his worst fears turned out to be
well founded.

The maiden's name was Dianora, the only child of
the stern old Bardi. She was but sixteen years old
and motherless. Brought up by an aged aunt, she
led a lonely, dull life in the grim old palace, with no
companions of her own age.

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 155

It was little wonder then that the face of the
handsome young stranger whom she had seen on the
festa day should haunt her thoughts. The very
next time she went out for one of her solemn, stately
walks on the Piazza with her father, she could not
help smiling to herself when she saw the same face
watching her from a distance, and caught a glimpse
of a plumed cap swept low, as she turned to enter the
palace gateway.

That night, when the moonbeams slanted their
way into the narrow street, she heard the sound of
soft music below, and when she noiselessly opened her
window and looked down, there was the same handsome
face upturned and the wistful eyes lifted towards her
window, as the notes of a love-song and the gentle
music of a guitar floated on the night air.

But though Ippolito caught these glimpses of his
fair lady, he could do no more. It seemed hopeless
to dream that they would ever learn to know each other.
Yet the more and more hopeless it became the more
Ippolito's heart was set upon it.

He began to grow thin and worn and could neither
eat nor sleep, until at last he thought of a plan. He
had an old friend, Madonna Contessa, who had always
been good to him, and had taken no part in the family
quarrels. She was a kind, sensible person, and knew
Dianora, so one day poor Ippolito went to her and
told her all his story.

' Now, are there not enough fair maidens in Florence

156 STORIES OF ITALY

to choose from, that thou must needs fix on a
daughter of the Bardi ? ' asked Madonna Contessa,
shaking her wise old head.

' There is but one Dianora,' said Ippolito sadly.

' Ah, well,' said she, folding her hands and looking
across to the blue hills that were growing misty in
the dim magic of the twilight hour, ' I have not
forgotten the dreams and disappointments of my
youth, and I would fain make two young hearts
happy. But it is a difficult and a dangerous task.'

' If I may but touch her hand and speak to her,'
sighed Ippolito.

' Well, at least I can promise thee so much,'
answered Madonna Contessa briskly. ' This very
week I celebrate here the feast of the vintage, and
Dianora Bardi shall be among my guests. Behave
thyself wisely and leave it to me. All will go well,
as thou shalt see.'

The summer was passing over and it was time
for the grapes to be gathered in when Madonna
Contessa invited her friends to the great feast held
every year in honour of the vintage. The young
people came early, and soon the vineyard was thronged
with gaily dressed youths and maidens, and there
was much laughing and merry chatter as they gathered
the purple clusters of grapes that hung from the
leafy festoons of the vines.

Ippolito had arrived first of all, but he was not
among the gatherers in the vineyard. In a quiet,

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 157

cool parlour of the villa he waited with beating heart,
striving to be patient until Dianora should appear.
He had not long to wait, for very soon the curtain
was drawn aside and the kind old Contessa entered
with Dianora at her side. It seemed to Ippolito
as if suddenly the whole world was flooded with
sunshine, and he knew at last what happiness meant.

How much they had to say to each other, and
how quickly the time sped past! It seemed as if
they had scarcely met when it was time to part.

' Thou wilt be true to me ? ' said Ippolito as he bade
her adieu.

' I will be true till death,' said Dianora ; ' but
I fear there is naught but trouble in store for us.
Dost thou think my father will ever consent to my
marriage with a Buondalmonti ? '

* Then we shall find a way to wed without his
consent,' said Ippolito gaily.

But though they both tried to speak so bravely
they knew they would be parted for ever if the secret
of their friendship became known to either of those
fierce families.

So time went on, bringing no hope of happier days,
until at last Ippolito determined to take matters
into his own hands. He thought if Dianora was
once his wife no power on earth could part them, and
together they would brave any fate in store.

So once more the kind old Contessa stood their
friend and she arranged for a priest to come to the

158 STORIES OF ITALY

villa, and one happy day Dianora and Ippolito were
married there in the little private chapel, with only
the quiet sculptured angels to look on, and the
birds to sing the wedding hymn of praise from the
green boughs of the trees that shaded the open
windows.

Still no one guessed their secret, and Dianora lived
on as usual her quiet, dull life in the old palace of the
Via dei Bardi. But her heart was light, and she
dreamed of happy days that must surely come if
only she waited patiently.

But to wait patiently was exactly the one thing
that Ippolito could not do, and very soon he contrived
to tell her of a plan he had arranged which would
bring them many happy meetings. With a long
silken ladder coiled under his cap, he made his way
one dark night to the Via dei Bardi, when the old
palace looked more grim and forbidding by night than
even by day. There was a faint light in one window,
however, and Ippolito's heart beat with happiness as
he stood below and softly gave the signal they had
agreed to use. The window was opened very quietly,
and soon a cord came dangling down. Swiftly and
silently Ippolito fastened his ladder to the cord and
waited breathlessly while it was pulled up and he
could feel it securely fastened above.

But, alas ! for the careful plan. Scarcely had
Ippolito began to climb than there was a sudden
clanking sound of weapons, and a crowd of armed

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 159

servants came hurrying out of the Bardi palace
waving torches and swords.

There hung Ippolito defenceless, at their mercy,
and in a moment he was seized, dragged down, and
securely bound.

' A robber ! a robber ! ' they cried ; ' away with him
to the Bargello.'

But when they arrived at the city guard-house
and they asked him his name, great was their surprise
to learn he was a young noble, and one belonging to
the house of their enemy the Buondalmonti.

' What was thy errand at the palace when thou
wert found ? ' they asked, perplexed.

' To rob,' said Ippolito boldly, for nothing would
tempt him to betray Dianora.

' And what then ? ' they said.

' To set fire to my enemy's palace,' said Ippolito
recklessly.

Here was wickedness indeed, and it was high time
such a bold young robber should be caught and
securely locked up.

In the morning, when the old Bardi learned of the
capture, he rubbed his hands with glee.

' Aha ! ' said he, ' we have made a famous capture
this tune. With this weapon we will strike a final
blow at the pride of the house of Buondalmonti.'

It was the time for the morning meal, and Dianora
and her aunt were seated at the table when the old
Bardi came in with the news.

160 STORIES OF ITALY

' Dost know young Ippolito Buondalmonti ? ' he
asked. ' A gay young cock that will soon cease to
crow. We have caught him red-handed trying to
break into the palace last night with intent to rob
and plunder.'

' To rob and plunder ? ' echoed Dianora. ' Surely
that could not be.'

' Ay, and he was seized under thy very window,'
said her father grimly, ' and soon he will swing in a
different manner.'

Dianora turned deadly white and gazed with
terrified eyes at her father's angry face.

' Do not frighten the maid with thy tales of midnight
robbers,' said her old aunt crossly ; ' see how pale she
grows. It is enough to terrify any one to hear of such
deeds.'

' Tush, tush, keep up a stout heart, little daughter/
said the old man. ' We have this gay young robber
safely under guard at the Bargello, and soon there
will be no more climbing of palace walls for him.'

Poor Dianora clasped her hands together in agony.
Oh, if only she were brave enough to confess the truth.
She tried to speak, but the words died away, for she
dared not face her father's terrible anger. She could
only creep away to her own room and sob her heart
out with fear and grief.

Meanwhile Ippolito was taken before the podesta,
or chief magistrate of Florence, and again examined.
It seemed difficult to believe that a young noble could

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 161

be a common thief, and he was asked again and again
why he had tried to enter the palace. But nothing
could move him to confess. He held Dianora's
honour dearer than his life, and his only answer was
that he had gone there to plunder and to burn down
his enemy's house. In vain his powerful family
offered to pay a fine or undergo any sacrifice if he might
be set free. The laws of Florence were strict, and the
podesta refused to be bribed. There was but one
sentence for such a crime, and Ippolito must die.

Now it was the custom in Florence that any one
condemned to death should be granted one last request,
and when in the early morning Ippolito was led out to
his execution he prayed that he might pass by way
of the Via dei Bardi instead of by the usual road.
The wish was granted, although it was a long way
round, for they fancied the young man might desire to
beg forgiveness ere he died.

It was a mild spring day, and the sun was just
glinting over the roofs of the houses and scarcely yet
lighting up the gloom of the narrow street, when the
procession turned into the Via dei Bardi. There, in
front, walked the frati chanting their solemn prayers,
then came the soldiers, then the guard with Ippolito
bound between them. The young noble walked with
firm steps and head proudly erect, and he never
paused until they were beneath the palace windows.
Then his steps faltered a moment and he cast one
swift glance iipwards to the window of Dianora's

L

162 STORIES OF ITALY

room. Ah, yes ! he knew she would be there. For a
moment they looked into each other's eyes, and he
gave a silent gesture of farewell which she alone saw,
and then passed on.

That look was more than Dianora could bear.
It was early morning, and she still wore only her white
night-robe, while her hair hung unbound in a golden
cloud about her shoulders. But she did not pause
to think of that. In an instant she had opened the
door and flown down the stairs, and before the
procession could pass she was among the crowd,
parting the soldiers from right to left. She never
paused until she reached the prisoner and clasped her
arms around his neck.

' He is innocent, innocent,' she sobbed out. ' He is
my husband.'

In a moment all was noise and confusion, while the
old Bardi appeared in a furious rage.

' She is mad,' he shouted ; ' the fright has turned
her brain, poor maid. Carry her in and pay no heed
to her raving.'

But Dianora clung all the more tightly round
her husband's neck, and repeated in a clear, steady
voice, ' Indeed it is naught but the truth ; he is my
husband, and he is innocent.'

In vain the Bardi tried to carry her off, until one
of the frati, who perhaps had heard Ippolito's confes-
sion and knew the truth, interfered.

' Mad or not, the maiden must come with us before

A TALE OF OLD FLORENCE 163

the podesta that we may make inquiry into this,' he
said.

They wrapped a cloak around Dianora's trembling
form, and gently carried her with them, soothing her
fears and telling her all would be well.

The whole story was soon told, and Ippolito was
set free from his bonds. Then the chiefs of the city
ordered that the Bardi and the Buondalmonti should
appear before them.

' Is it not time that your senseless quarrelling and
unmeaning hatred should cease ? ' they sternly asked.
' Your son and daughter are married, and nothing
can undo the deed. It were better to join hands now
and henceforth forget your feud.'

So it was agreed that there should be peace between
the families, and Florence at last had rest from their
fierce quarrellings. Ippolito and Dianora, of course,
lived happily together, and as the old chronicle tells
us, ' they had twelve children, sons and daughters,
each as brave and beautiful as their father and
mother.'

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA

FLA VIA was very young when she married the Emperor
of Rome. Life seemed full of joy, and she had every-
thing that her heart could desire. The Emperor
loved her dearly, and she was as happy as the day was
long. It is true that her husband sometimes flew into
terrible passions and was often harsh in his judgments
when he was angry, but to Flavia he was always gentle
and kind, and she loved him with all her heart. He
was not very clever, perhaps, but he was straight-
forward and honourable, very different to the prince,
his brother, who always lived with them at the
palace.

This prince was a handsome, clever young man and
had great influence over the Emperor, but his ways
were crooked and crafty and his heart was bad.

It happened soon after his marriage that war broke
out with the Turks, and the Emperor was obliged to
leave his young wife and put himself at the head of his
army.

It troubled him to think of leaving Flavia with all
the cares of the state on her hands. She was so young
and would be so lonely in the great palace without him.
It was a comfort, however, to think his brother would

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 165

be there to help and cheer her, and in parting he
earnestly prayed the prince to do all in his power to
help and protect the Empress.

But scarcely had the Emperor gone when the prince
began to plan and plot how he might get rid of his
brother. If only by some happy chance the Emperor
should be killed and never return, what good fortune
that would be !

The prince had long been envious of his brother.
He longed to seize both the crown and the beautiful
Empress, but he was obliged to work cautiously.

First he began with Flavia. With a word here and
a word there he tried to make her feel ill-used.

' It is a pity,' he said, ' that the dear Emperor
has such a terrible temper. I fear you must often have
suffered from it.'

' That I never have,' said Flavia indignantly ;
' he is always gentle with me.'

' Yet he has left you all alone and unprotected,'
said the prince. ' He really need not have gone away
so soon.'

' He always does his duty,' said Flavia proudly.
It was no use hinting to Flavia, and time was
going on, so one day the prince spoke out boldly.

' The Emperor will return no more,' he said. ' I
am about to arrange that he shall be accidentally
killed, and then I shall seize the crown. Help me
with my plans and you shall still be Empress.'

For a moment Flavia was paralysed with astonish-

166 STORIES OF ITALY

ment and horror, and could not answer. The prince
thought she was about to consent, and left her well
pleased.

But he little knew Flavia. Scarcely had he gone
out than she sent for the officer of the guard and bade
him arrest the Emperor's brother immediately and see
that he was locked up in a lonely tower outside the
city where no one should go near him except the
gaoler. The officer looked astonished, but Flavia
did not tell him what crime the prince had com-
mitted ; she could not bear to think that the Emperor's
subjects should know that his brother was a base
traitor. Then she wrote him a note in which she said
that she hoped she would never look on his treacherous
face again.

But though the prince found himself locked up and
his plans upset, he did not despair, for he was very
clever. First he pretended to be very ill indeed, and
begged that a priest might be sent to him. Flavia
was tender-hearted and could not bear to think he
should die alone, so she sent him her own father
confessor, a gentle old man who was very easily
deceived. He very soon began to beg Flavia to
release the prince.

' I do not know what crime you accuse him of,' said
the old man, ' but he seems truly penitent. He can-
not remember anything that happened before his
illness, and, indeed, I think he has been quite out
of his mind and did not know what he was doing.'

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 167

Then the prince, too, wrote long letters, pretending
to be terribly afraid of his brother's anger.

' When he knows, he will kill me,' he wrote over
and over again as if in an agony of fear. And he
implored Flavia to set him at liberty before the
Emperor returned.

Meanwhile the news came that the war was over,
and the Emperor sent word that he would soon
be on his way home. Flavia's heart was filled with
happiness, and in her joy she could not bear to think
that the Emperor should learn at once the story of
his brother's treachery, so she sent word that the
prince was to be released.

At last the happy day came when the Emperor
entered the city at the head of his victorious army.
There were great rejoicings throughout Rome, but
happiest of all was the Empress Flavia.

There was one face, however, that was sad and
downcast. The Emperor's brother went about with
his melancholy eyes fixed on the ground as if he were
too miserable to look up. The Emperor looked at
him keenly several times and at last took him aside.

' Why dost thou look so sorrowful ? ' he asked ;
' tell me what has come to thee ? '

The prince shook his head and sighed. ' Ah,
there is sorrow enough,' he said, ' but I cannot tell
thee what it is.'

' I command thee to tell me at once,' said the
Emperor.

168 STORIES OF ITALY

' I dare not,' said the prince. ' Alas, it is a tale of
treachery aimed against thy own life.'

4 That is but what an emperor must expect,' said
his brother calmly. ' Come, tell me the plot and the
names of the plotters.'

The prince made great pretence of being most un-
willing, but at last, when the Emperor began to lose
patience, he spoke out.

' How can I tell thee,' he said, ' when the one who
plotted against thy life was thine own wife, Flavia ? '

The Emperor sprang to his feet and seized his
brother's arm.

' Take care what thou sayest,' he said ; ' such a
thing cannot be.'

Then the prince began his tale saying that he had
discovered the plot and begged Flavia to stop before
it was too late. But as soon as the Empress knew
that her crime was discovered by him, she sent im-
mediately for the guard and ordered him to be arrested
and shut up in a lonely prison, refusing to tell any one
of what crime she accused him.

' There, in that solitary prison, I have lain sick and
sorrowful until yesterday when the Empress ordered
me to be released, doubtless fearing your anger,'
ended the wily prince.

Even then the Emperor could not believe it,
until the prince showed him some letters, really
written by himself, but copied from Flavia's hand-
writing, in which all the treachery was told.

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 169

Then the Emperor called the officer of the guard
and demanded why it was that the prince had been
imprisoned.

' Your Highness,' said the officer, ' it was by order
of the Empress, but for what crime he was punished
we do not know.'

When the Emperor heard that, he flew into one of
his dreadful rages and declared that Flavia should be
put to death.

The prince pretended to plead for her, but that
only made the Emperor more furious. He sent
immediately for two of his most trusted officers and
bade them go at once to the Empress's apartments
and conduct her to a villa some distance from Rome.
The way led through a lonely wood, and when they
reached the wood the officers were instructed to put
the Empress to death, but to pretend that she had
died of an illness, so that no one might know of her
dreadful crime.

' And as a token that ye have done your duty,'
added the Emperor, ' bring me the ring and gold
chain which the Empress wears, that I may know that
the deed has been accomplished.'

Flavia could not understand why she should
undertake this hurried journey, but the officers told
her it was the Emperor's will, and that he would join
her later. So she set out with them, feeling somewhat
perplexed and unhappy.

They journeyed on for some time until they came

170 STORIES OF ITALY

to the edge of a dark wood, and there the officers
requested the Empress to alight from her horse, as
there was only a narrow footpath through the woods.
The servants would take the horses round by a longer
road, they said.

This also seemed strange to Flavia, for she was
not accustomed to walking on rough roads, but she
dismounted and went on with the two officers.

As the wood grew darker and darker, and the path
so narrow that it was difficult to push a way through
the briars, the men began to look at one another.
' Wilt thou tell her ? ' said one.
' No, I cannot,' said the other ; ' indeed I have no
liking for this business. The Emperor is often hasty
in his judgment, when those terrible rages seize him.'
' Still, it must be done,' said the first, and turning
to Flavia he told her that she had been brought here
to be executed, since the Emperor had discovered her
treachery and how she had plotted against his life.

Flavia turned pale, but she held her head high and
fearlessly.

' I am innocent,' was all she said.
' I verily believe she is,' said one of the officers.
' I would that we might spare her.'

' If we spare her, the Emperor will not spare us,'
said the other. ' It is her life or ours. Remember
how we are to take back her ring and her golden chain
as a token that we have obeyed his commands.'

As soon as Flavia heard these words she quickly

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLA VIA 171

slipped off her ring and unwound the chain from her
neck and thrust them into the guard's hand. Then,
quick as thought, she turned and ran through the
trees.

It was drawing towards evening and the light in
the wood was very dim as the trees grew thickly
together. The men started to overtake Flavia, but
the foremost officer, catching his foot in the root of a
tree, fell heavily to the ground, while his companion,
just behind him, fell headlong over him. When they
picked themselves up Flavia had disappeared, and
though they searched the wood all night they could
discover no trace of her.

When morning dawned the men consulted together
and made up their minds to return to Rome and carry
the ring and the chain to the Emperor, and allow
him to think that Flavia was dead.

By this time the Emperor's rage had spent itself,
and although he was still sure that Flavia was guilty,
he began to wish he had not been so hasty.

' She is little more than a child,' he said to his
brother sorrowfully. ' It would have been better if
I had shut her up in some convent where she might
have had time to repent.'

So when the officers returned and silently offered
him the well-known ring and golden chain, he asked
no questions, but made a gesture for them to take
the things away, for he would not touch them.

After that the Emperor lived but a sad, lonely life,

172 STORIES OF ITALY

and the name of Flavia never passed his lips. Only
once, when a crowd of poor people came to the palace
door and he heard them lamenting that their ' little
mother,' as they called Flavia, was gone, he gave
orders that whatever charity the Empress had given
should be continued in her name.

Now when poor Flavia had escaped from the two
officers, she wandered about the wood all night and in
the early morning found her way out on to the high-
road once more.

Weary and footsore, her clothes torn by the brambles
and her hands scratched and bleeding, she looked no
longer like an empress but rather like a poor wayfarer.
There she sat by the roadside and wondered what she
should do next. She knew that the road in one direc-
tion must lead to Rome, and she did not know which
way to take. Just then, in the dim morning light, she
saw a company of people and horses coming along.
Some of the horses were laden with merchandise, and
at the head of the company rode an old man who
appeared to be the chief merchant.

He had a kind, gentle-looking face, and Flavia,
feeling desperate, went out into the road as he was
passing and held out her hands to him as if to implore
a favour.

The old man stopped his horse at once, but bade his
servants go on. He saw that this was no common
beggar, but some one of gentle birth.

' What can I do for thee ? ' he asked kindly.

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 173

' Wilt thou tell me whither this road leads ? ' she
asked

' That way to Rome,' he said, pointing behind him,
' and this way in front to Ostia where I am going.'

' Oh, wilt thou help me ? ' said Flavia, clasping her
hands. ' I am alone and unprotected, and I, too,
would go to Ostia. Wilt thou take me under thy
protection ? '

The old man thought for a moment.

' What is thy name, and how earnest thou here
alone ? ' he asked.

Flavia looked into his kind eyes and felt she could
trust him.

' I cannot tell thee who I am,' she said, ' but the
reason I am here alone is that I was condemned to
death and have just escaped.'

' Lift up thy veil and let me see thy face,' said the
old man.

Flavia lifted her veil as he bade her, and the mer-
chant looked at her with a long, searching gaze.

' Thou mayest come,' he said at last ; ' I see nothing
but good in that face.'

So he called to one of the men to bring a horse and
lift the maiden upon it, and they journeyed on together
to Ostia.

' I will take thee home to my wife for one night,'
said the merchant thoughtfully as they neared the
town, ' and to-morrow I will see thee safe in a convent
where the Emperor himself could not touch thee.'

174 STORIES OF ITALY

Flavia thanked him gratefully, and also thanked God
in her heart that she had fallen into such kind hands.

But if the merchant was kind-hearted his wife
was even kinder. She looked keenly at Flavia and
listened to the tale which her husband had to tell,
and when he talked of the convent she shook her
head.

' Why not let her stay here with us ? ' she said.
' I have never seen a sweeter or a purer face, and it is
useless to tell me she has committed a crime worthy
of death. Why, she is but a child, just the age our
little daughter would have been now had she lived to
grow up.'

The thought of the little daughter who had died
made the merchant feel very pitiful towards Flavia,
but still he hesitated.

' Art thou sure it is wise to take a stranger into
our house of whom we know nothing but that she is
accused of a great crime ? ' he asked.

' You know our Emperor,' answered his wife ;
' when he is seized with one of his sudden rages
he is seldom just, and I feel sure this maiden is in-
nocent. Let her stay with us, and she shall help me
to look after the child.'

For the merchant and his wife had one little child,
a son of their old age, whom they loved very dearly.

So it was settled that the maiden should stay, and
for a while all went well. Poor Flavia began to hold
up her head again and to feel as if there was still

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 175

some peace for her in the world, sheltered as she was
in that kind home. But the peace did not last
long.

The merchant had a younger brother who lived in
the house, and this young man, seeing Flavia's
beauty, began to wish to make her his wife. Flavia
told him at once that he must not think of such a
thing, that she was but a servant in the house, and not
fit to marry her master's brother. But when he
continued to trouble her she saw that she must tell
the truth.

' Why wilt thou not marry me ? ' he asked.

' For the best reason of all,' she answered at last
gravely. ' I am already married.'

At first the young man would not believe this, but
afterwards he said even that did not matter, for her
husband was as good as dead.

Then Flavia turned from him in great anger, and
he in his turn waxed furious and warned her that
she would soon repent of the way she had scorned
him.

' Do as I wish or a terrible misfortune will overtake
thee,' he said.

' The good God holds the future in His hands,'
answered Flavia, ' and He will protect me.'

After this it seemed as if the young man's thoughts
grew blacker and more evil every day. Very soon he
began to arrange a dreadful plan to punish Flavia,
and ended one day by killing the poor little boy and

176 STORIES OF ITALY

then pretending that it was Flavia who had done the
cruel deed.

Poor Flavia ! at first she could not understand
why they thought it possible for her to commit such
a crime, for she loved the child dearly. But when
the guards arrived to carry her off to prison and she
asked them who had accused her and they told her
it was her master's brother, then she understood
it all.

The judges before whom she was taken asked at
once who she was and what was her history. The
poor old merchant could only tell what he knew, how
he had found her alone and friendless and accused
of some terrible crime. Flavia herself would tell
nothing more, and everything looked so black that
they were sure she was guilty. So the poor innocent
maiden was condemned to death, with no me to help
or pity her.

The judges shook their heads sorrowfully to think
that one so young and beautiful should be so wicked,
and they declared it was fitting that a terrible punish-
ment should follow such a life of crime. So they ordered
that both her hands should be cut off and then that
she should be carried out to sea and left to die alone
on a desolate rock.

But when Flavia came to herself on the little desert
island alone and dying, a strange feeling of peace
began to steal over her. It was so cool and quiet
lying on that rock. The soft lap of the waves soothed

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 177

her after the turmoil of the angry voices, and the
gentle breeze seemed like a friend laying a cool,
caressing hand upon her aching forehead.

' I have found peace at last,' she said to herself
with a tired smile as she turned and fell quietly
asleep, thinking that all was over.

But that sleep was not the sleep of death. In
the middle of the night she awoke and looked up to
see the kindly stars shining down on her and to feel
the cool wind gently stirring her hair. The soothing
sound of the lapping water was still the only thing
she heard, and again a great peace seemed to wrap
her round and comfort her sad heart.

Then, as she lay there watching the stars, a light
began to dawn in the sky. At first she thought it
must be morning, but it was not at all like the light
of dawn. Brighter and brighter it grew until it took
the form of a shining cloud, so white and full of
dazzling light that it seemed as if the midday sun
must be shining from within.

Flavia gazed with wondering eyes as the cloud came
ever nearer and nearer until it hung over the rock
on which she lay. Then the wonder of it seemed to
grow too great for mortal eyes. Like the petals of a
white flower the soft masses of cloud unfolded from
within, and there in the centre of the light stood the
Madonna. Flavia knew that face at once, although
it was far more beautiful than any picture she had
ever seen.

M

178 STORIES OF ITALY

The pitying look in the Madonna's face grew
deeper as she bent down over Flavia and gently spoke
to her.

' Poor child,' she said, ' I have come to put an end
to all thy sufferings. There is nothing now but happi-
ness in store for thee. Ere long thou wilt be taken
from off this rock and thy troubles will be over.
But first I have a gift to bestow upon thee.'

And as she spoke the Madonna fastened two of
the fairest, whitest hands upon Flavia's poor wrists,
and round the join she placed two bands of shining
gold. They looked the most perfect, the most beauti-
ful hands that mortal eyes had ever seen, and no
wonder, since they were a gift from the Madonna
herself.

' O Madonna mia,' said Flavia with a sobbing
breath, ' take me away with thee. I am so weary of
this world and all its troubles. I only want to be at
rest.'

' Nay,' said the Madonna, ' I cannot take thee with
me now, for there is still work for thee to do on
earth.'

' How can that be ? ' asked Flavia sadly.

' Only wait and thou shalt see,' answered the
Madonna. ' I have still another gift for thee. When
I am gone lift up that stone close to the water's edge,
and under it thou shalt find a bunch of sweet
herbs. Take them with thee, for they will cure all
ills and bring much comfort to those in sorrow.

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 179

Now, my child, wait patiently for thy release, and
farewell.'

Then the cloud began to fold itself once more
like a closing flower round its shining heart. And
Flavia watched it float away, growing dimmer and
dimmer in the distance, until it vanished from her
sight.

Could it have been only a dream and was she still
asleep ? Flavia wondered if she was dreaming, but
she looked down at those fair white hands and the
golden bands and knew that the Madonna had indeed
come to comfort and heal her. Then she remembered
the second gift, and, lifting the stone, she found there
the bunch of sweet herbs which the Madonna had
promised. She pressed them against her cheek to
smell their fragrance and then carefully hid them in
her robe. And, strange to say, she felt almost as
happy and light-hearted as she used to feel when she
was a young bride and Empress of Rome.

It was morning now, and as she looked across the
blue water she saw a fishing-boat coming towards the
island rowed by two men, one old and bent and the
other with a bandage round his eyes. She called to
them as they were rowing past, but at first they did
not hear. Presently, however, they caught sight of
her and came towards the rock.

The amazement of the fishermen was great to see a
lady on that desolate island. It was all the more
strange because she was so beautiful, with such

180 STORIES OF ITALY

wonderful golden bracelets and fair, white hands.

They thought it must be some vision, until Flavia

spoke to them and asked them from whence they

came.

They told her their home was in a little fishing-
village some distance from Ostia, and this pleased
Flavia well.

' Wilt thou take me there ? ' she asked the old man.
' I will find means to repay thee.'

The old man spoke some words to his companion,
who nodded his head. He was a young man and
seemed to be suffering great pain when he lifted the
bandage from his eyes and tried to look at Flavia.

' Is aught amiss with thine eyes ? ' asked Flavia
gently.

' We fear he will soon be blind,' said the old man
mournfully. ' One eye was cut by a stone thrown
by a careless boy, and now the sight of the other
eye is almost gone.'

' Stay,' said Flavia, ' perhaps I can help thee.'

She took the bunch of herbs from her bosom,
and after she had very tenderly undone the bandage
she laid the sweet-smelling leaves upon the poor
injured eyes.

The work of healing was done in a moment. The
pain vanished and sight returned. Then feeling and
seeing the miracle the two men fell on their knees,
and lifting the hem of Flavia's robe, pressed it to
their lips.

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 181

' My lady,' they said, ' tell us if thou art the Madonna
herself ? '

' Nay,' said Flavia, smiling, ' but these herbs are
indeed a gift from heaven. So give thanks to God
for thy healing.'

The grateful fishermen gladly now took her into
their boat and rowed her back to the little village,
where they gave her the best of everything their
poverty could afford.

Every one who was sick or suffering came there
to be cured by Flavia, and the blessed herbs never
failed in their virtue. From the poor she took no
payment, but from the rich she asked money, for she
needed to live, and her clothes, too, were almost worn
out.

Ere long the work in the village seemed ended, and
Flavia made up her mind to depart. She had now
bought a few garments, a plain black robe, and a long
veil which covered her from head to foot. No one,
she felt sure, would recognise her now, and so she set
out to return to Ostia.

The fame of her cures had already reached that town,
and people soon began to crowd around the Saint, as
they called her. Very patiently she listened to all
their woes and cured any one who came to her, just
as she had done in the little fishing- village.

One day when they had brought a sick child to
her, and the crowd was pressing round as usual to
watch the miracle, she noticed a man trying to force

M2

182 STORIES OF ITALY

his way through the crush as if anxious to reach her.
As he came nearer and she saw his face she recognised
him as one of the servants who lived in her old master's
house. She bade the people allow the man to pass,
and when he reached her side asked him what he
sought.

' Wilt thou come with me at once ? ' he panted ;
' my master's brother is dying. My master prays
thee to come and try if thou canst save him.'

' When I am finished my work here I will come,'
said Flavia quietly

The servant waited impatiently, but Flavia would
not come until she had done all she could for the
sick child, and then she set out for the merchant's
house.

' What ails thy master's brother ? ' she asked as
they hurried along.

' No one knows,' answered the man, ' but he seems
to have something on his mind and grows daily worse
and worse.'

When Flavia reached the house she knew so well,
she almost forgot to pretend she was a stranger,
but she allowed the man to lead her upstairs as if she
did not know the way.

There was a priest in the room into which they led
her, and the old merchant and his wife were also
there. They were all standing round the bed on
which the young man lay.

The old merchant turned quickly to meet the

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 183

stranger, and in a low tone implored her to do all she
could to cure his brother.

' I will do my best,' said Flavia gravely. ' But first
I must ask if he has confessed his sins, because my
herbs can only cure those who are truly penitent.'

' Oh yes, he has confessed only this morning,' said
the priest.

But Flavia knew by the calm way he spoke that
the young man had not confessed all.

She went up to the bed and quietly bent over
him.

' There is one sin you have not confessed,' she said.

The sick man began to tremble from head to foot,
and the people around thought he was dying

' Oh, help him ! ' cried the old merchant in an
imploring voice to Flavia.

' I cannot help him unless he will help himself
first and confess his sin,' answered Flavia. ' My
herbs are powerless to heal until he does that.'

' Then let us leave him alone with the priest,' said
the merchant.

' Nay,' said Flavia, ' he must confess before thee
and thy wife and me.'

The young man groaned, but feeling sure that he
was about to die he made up his mind to confess his
great sin.

' I killed the child myself,' he moaned, ' and laid the
blame on Flavia.'

A great cry broke from the lips of the merchant's

184 STORIES OF ITALY

wife, and the master himself gave a deep groan,
but Flavia bent gently over the sick man and laid
the bunch of herbs upon his breast. Health and
strength came back immediately, but he turned his
head to the wall.

' To think how that poor child Flavia suffered
while all the time she was innocent,' sobbed the
merchant's wife.

' Well, at least he shall suffer the same,' said the
merchant sternly. ' Call the guards that they may
carry him off to prison.'

' No,' said Flavia firmly. ' See, his life has just
been given back by a miracle. How would you dare
to take it away again ? '

' He has committed a crime and shall be put to
death, although he is my brother,' said the merchant
sternly.

' It is right that he should suffer seeing that he
allowed Flavia to bear the punishment of his sin,'
said the merchant's wife. ' I shall never have a
moment's peace thinking of that poor young innocent
maid.'

' Let me entreat you to spare at least his life,'
pleaded Flavia.

' No, for Flavia's sake I cannot,' replied her old
mistress.

' But if I tell you that the maid you mourn for is
alive and well,' said Flavia, ' will you then be merci-
ful ?'

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 185

' If you promise that I shall indeed see Flavia
some day you shall have your way,' said the
merchant's wife.

' That I promise,' said Flavia, ' and as to this man
he shall go into a convent where he will have time to
pray and repent all the rest of his life.'

So at last this was settled and Flavia went home
well content.

Soon after this the news reached Ostia that a
terrible pestilence was raging in Rome and hundreds
were dying daily. As soon as Flavia heard this she
made up her mind to go there and see if she might
help with her wonderful herbs.

Night and day she worked amongst the stricken
people, healing all those who came to her, until the
news of the wonderful cure reached the Emperor's
ears. Then came a call for Flavia to go to the
Imperial palace. The Emperor's brother was seized
with the pestilence and the doctors said he could not
live.

' Send for the wonderful saint who would seem to
work miracles,' said the Emperor.

It was with strange feelings that Flavia mounted
the great staircase of the Imperial palace. She
thought of the day when she had entered so gaily as a
young bride, and that sad day when she had come
down for the last time.

No one could see that her eyes were full of tears,
for she never lifted her long black veil, and only the

186 STORIES OF ITALY

servants noticed with wonder that she seemed to
know her way without a guide.

' In which room is the prince laid ? ' she asked,
when at last they reached the Emperor's apartments.

They led her to the room, and she entered very
quietly and looked around. The Emperor stood by
the bedside and he turned as she entered, but Flavia
scarcely knew him, so old and sad had he grown.
And when he lifted his eyes there was such a world of
sorrow in them that Flavia's heart ached with pity.
The prince, indeed, looked terribly ill and seemed in
fearful pain, but Flavia scarcely glanced at him, for
she could think of no one but the Emperor.

' I think thou needest my healing powers as much
as he who lies stricken there,' she said in a low voice.

' Mine is no illness that thou canst cure,' said the
Emperor quietly. ' It is sickness of the heart, not of
the body.'

' But my herbs have wonderful power,' said Flavia
eagerly ; ' let me but try.'

The Emperor motioned her towards the bed.

' I ask for nothing for myself,' he said, ' only cure
my brother, for he is all I have left.'

' I cannot cure him until he has confessed a sin
that lies heavy on his soul,' said Flavia.

' Then call a priest,' said the Emperor, ' and let
it be done quickly.'

' Nay,' said Flavia, ' he must confess it to thee and
to me.'

THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS FLAVIA 187

When the prince heard these words he turned his
face to the wall and groaned aloud.

' I would rather die than confess,' he whispered.

But his sufferings began to increase so sorely that
at last he could endure it no longer.

' I will confess,' he moaned. ' It was I who plotted
against the Emperor's life. I accused Flavia to shelter
myself. I am guilty. She was innocent.'

The Emperor stood there as if turned to stone
when these words fell on his ear, but Flavia bent over
the dying man and gently laid her herbs upon his
mouth, and the pain and fever fled away.

Then the low, stern voice of the Emperor sounded
through the room when he saw his brother was saved.

' Summon the guards,' he said.

' Stop ! ' cried Flavia ; ' think well before thou
takest a life which God has but just given back.'

' Alas ! ' said the Emperor, ' I cannot undo my
rash mistake, but I can at least punish my brother
as he caused Flavia to be punished.'

Then Flavia began to plead with all her heart
that he would spare the prince's life, while the young
man clung to a fold of her robe, feeling that his only
chance of safety lay with her.

But for a long time she pleaded in vain.

' If I ordered Flavia to be put to death when she
was innocent, how much more should I condemn this
traitor when he himself owns that he is guilty ? ' said
the Emperor.

188 STORIES OF ITALY

' But supposing my wonderful herbs could bring
the Empress back to life ? ' said Flavia at last.

' Ah,' said the Emperor sadly, ' let me but once
more see Flavia alive, and there would be no room
in my heart for anything but forgiveness.'

Then Flavia slowly lifted her veil and threw it
back.

' I am Flavia,' she said simply.

Printed by T and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

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