"You are tired!" said Daphne anxiously. "Rest."

Bertuccio was sleeping on his flat rock; San Pietro lay down for
a brief, ascetic slumber. The lovers sat side by side, with the
mystery of beauty about them: the purple and gold of nearness
and distance; bright color of green grass near, sombre tint of
cypress and stone pine afar.

"I shall never really know whether you are a god or not," said
Daphne dreamily.

"A very proper attitude for a woman to have toward her husband,"
he answered with a smile. "I must try hard to live up to the
character. You will want to live on Olympus, and you really
ought, if you are going to wear gowns woven of my sunbeams like
the one you had on yesterday. How shall I convince you that Rome
must do part of the time? You will want me to make you immortal:
that always happens when a maiden marries a god."

"I think you have done that already," said Daphne.