'How beautiful it is here!' exclaimed Donna Maria, as she entered the
demesne of the four-fronted Hermes, into the paradise of the acanthus.
'But what a strange scent!'
The whole air was full of the odour of musk, as from the unseen presence
of some musk-breathing insect or animal. The shadows were deep and
mysterious, the rays of light which pierced the foliage, already touched
by the finger of autumn, seemed like shafts of moonlight shining through
the storied windows of a cathedral. A mixed sentiment, partly Pagan,
partly Christian, seemed to emanate from this sylvan retreat, as from a
mythological picture painted by an early Christian artist.
'Oh look, look, Delfina!' her mother exclaimed in the excited tones of
one who suddenly comes upon a thing of beauty.
Delfina had skilfully woven little sprays of orange blossom into a
garland, and now, with the fancifulness of childhood, she was eager that
it should encircle the head of the marble deity. She could not reach it,
but did her best to accomplish her object by standing on tip-toe and
stretching her arm to its utmost extent; her slender, elegant and
vivacious little figure offering a striking contrast to the rigid,
square and solemn form of the statue, like a lily-stem against an oak.
All her efforts were, however, fruitless.
Smilingly, her mother came to her aid.
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