She nodded.

"I know part of this play by heart," she faltered. "My father
taught me Greek words when I was small enough to ride his
foot."

He stepped down among the sheep to the grassy stage, laying aside
his hat and letting the sun sparkle on his bright hair. The odd
sheepskin coat lent a touch of grotesqueness to his beauty as he
began.

"'Nay, be thou what thou wilt; but I will bury him: well for me
to die in doing that. I shall rest, a loved one with him whom I
have loved, sinless in my crime; for I owe a longer allegiance to
the dead than to the living: in that world I shall abide
forever.'"

Slow, full, and sweet the words came, beating like music on the
girl's heart. All the sorrow of earth seemed gathered up in the
undertones, all its hunger and thirst for life and love: in it
rang the voice of a will stronger than death and strong as love.

The sheep lifted their heads and looked on anxiously, as if for a
moment even the heart of a beast were touched by human sorrow.
From over the highest ridge of this green amphitheatre San Pietro
looked down with the air of one who had nothing more to learn of
woe. Apollo stood in the centre of the stage, taking one voice,
then another: now the angry tone of the tyrant, Creon, now the
wail of the chorus, hurt but undecided, then breaking into the
unspeakable sweetness and firmness of Antigone's tones. The