the pasture where the donkey grazed, in silence and in sadness,
and frisked dangerously near his comrade's heels. For all his
melancholy, the asinetto was not insensible to caresses, and at
night, when the lamb cuddled close to him as the two lay in the
grass in the darkness, would curl his nose round now and then
protectingly to see how this small thing fared.

So Daphne kept forgetting, forgetting, and nothing recalled her
to her perplexity, except her donkey. San Pietro Martire she
named him, for on his face was written the patience and the
suffering of the saints. Some un-ltalian sense of duty stiffened
his hard little legs, gave rigid strength to his back. Willing
to trudge on with his load, willing to rest, carrying his head a
little bent, blinking mournfully at the world from under the drab
hair on his forehead, San Pietro stood as a type of the
disciplined and chastened soul. His very way of cropping the
grass had something ascetic in it, reminding his mistress of
Eustace at a festive dinner.

"San Pietro, San Pietro," said Daphne one day, when Bertuccio was
plodding far in the rear, whistling as he followed, "San Pietro,
must I do it?"

There was a drooping forward of the ears, a slight bending of the
head, as the little beast put forth more strength to meet the
difficulty of rising ground.

"San Pietro, do you know what you are advising? Do you at all
realize what it is to be a clergyman's wife?"