Santa Tarsilla on their way to and from the woods and hills; rough men and wild, but often eloquent, making their lutes sound sweetly by the side of the moonlit sea, or rolling out strophe and antistrophe, unconscious of their harmonies, as the wave broke upon the sand.
Her fancy, untrained but strong, like the wild 'mother of the woods' that brought forth its blossoms unseen over the waste around, made of the dead Etruscans her own nation, and of their subterranean graves her temple.
'You live too much with these dead people, child,' said Joconda to her.
'They do me no harm,' said Musa. 'The living make me angry often, and I strike them sometimes; the dead make me ashamed that I am ever wicked.'
'They were wicked enough themselves, most like,' grumbled Joconda. 'I will be bound men and women have never differed much.'
'They do me good,' said Musa; and she said no more.
They were sacred to her. She could not have put into words what she felt, but it was very strong in her, this sense of
