vines that were all about it, and high hedges of wild roses and thickets of arbutus rambling around its old walled graveyard.
The paths close round it were too steep for the horses, and the last half mile had to be climbed on foot.
It was one of those spring days which often fall in February; the ground was blue with violets, and the grass golden with crocus and hepatica; there were butterflies and bees on the air; the mavis and blackbird were singing.
The San Cipriano hung over a side altar in the dark, desolate, grand old church, where no worshipper ever came except a tired peasant, or a shepherd sheltering from a storm.
Della Rocca pulled aside the moth-eaten curtains from the adjacent window, and let the sunshine in. Some little children were sitting on the altar-steps stringing daisies and berries; the light made a halo about their heads; the deep Venetian colours of the forgotten picture glanced like jewels through the film of the dust of ages. Its theme was the martyrdom of the Magician and of S. Justina; beneath were the crowds of
