CHAPTER
ONE.
It was bright noon， high summer， in the upland valleys of
Tuscany: a torpid time， a season ot dust and languor， of
stripped flax and larks in the wheat stubble， and new wines
coming to yintage in the country of the Elder Gods. It was
!an hour of bells， undulant in a dry air， tranquil over the
:tombs of dead saints and the feuds of forgotten mercenaries.
w~hWaS a persuasion to darkness and drawn shutters， since
o but dogs and Americans would expose their foolish
foreheads to an August sun at midday?
In the village of San Stefano， the first strokes of the
Angelus were sounding over the square. The bell-ringer was
old and the music of his chimes was muted. The village was
drowsy and replete with a good harvest; so the last pas-
sages of its morning life were muted too.
An old man stopped， crossed himself and stood with
bowed head as the triple tones rang out from the white
campanile. A tubby fellow in a white apron with a
checkerboard napkin over his arm stood at the door of the
restaurant and picked his teeth with a match. A mule-faced
policeman made a tentative step outside his door， squinted
languidly round the square， spat， scratched himself， and
then wandered back to his wine and cheese.
Water welled sluggishly from the mouths of tired dol-
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