meant to tell. Now, if she could confront him once, absolutely
unshaken, could tell him her decision, give him words of
dismissal in a voice that had no tremor in it, as her voice had
had the other day, that would be a satisfactory and triumphant
parting for one who had come badly off. Her shoulder burned yet
where he had kissed it, and yet she was not angry. He must have
known that day how little she was vexed. If she could only see
him once again, she said wistfully to herself, to show him how
angry she was, all would be well.

Daphne had wandered to the great stone gate that led out upon the
highway, and was leaning her forehead against a moss-grown post,
when she heard a sudden noise. Then the voice of San Pietro
Martire broke the stillness of the night, and Daphne, listening,
thought she heard a faint sound of bleating. Hermes was calling
her, and Hermes was in danger. Up the long avenue she ran toward
the house, and, seizing the tiny lamp at the doorway, sped up the
slope toward the inclosure where the two animals grazed, the
flame making a trail of light like that of a firefly moving
swiftly in the darkness. The bray rang out again, but there was
no second sound of bleating. Inside the pasture gate she found
the donkey anxiously sniffing at something that lay in the grass.
Down on her knees went Daphne, for there lay Hermes stretched out
on his side, with traces of blood at his white throat.

The girl put down her lamp and lifted him in her arms. Some
cowardly dog had done this thing, and had run away on seeing her,
or hearing her unfasten the gate. She put one finger on the
woolly bosom, but the heart was not beating. The lamb's awkward
legs were stretched out quite stiffly, and his eyes were