Halfway down the cliff, a little ruined shrine stood in the garden. The broken grey-brown tracery of the window framed an exquisite panorama of water and distant hills, brilliantly blue and green. The nook stood away from the main path; and was quite enclosed by sun-kissed foliage, and canopied with vines and ivy. Hadrian was spending a morning here, alone with cigarettes and the Epinikia of Pindaros and His thoughts. The air was fragrant with the perfume of southernwood and the generous sun. He rested in a low cane-chair, soaking Himself in light and peace. His eyes were turned to the far distant shore where the great grove of ilex cast deep tralucid shadows in the water. A tiny slip of pink shot from sunlight to shade: another followed: two tiny splashes of silver spray arose, and vanished: two blue-black dots appeared in the rippled mirror. Hadrian envied the young swimmers. He remembered all the wild unfettered boundless sensuous joy of only a little while ago. Was the fisherman still down there with his boat and the brown boy who rowed it? He wondered what the world would say if the Pope were to swim in sunlit Nemi—or in moonlit. Ah, the mild tepidity of moonlit water, the clean cold caress of moonlit air! Not that He cared jot or tittle for what the world might say—personally. No. But—No. If He were to ask for the use of the boat, tongues would clack. And He could not go alone with the deliberate intention. Still—didn’t Peter swim in Galilee. Weren’t the Attendolo gardens private? Some night He might stroll down to the shore: the water was fathomless at once: there need be no wading with the ripples horribly creeping up one’s flesh—Yaff! But the toads on the path, and the lizards and the serpents in the grass—oh no. Then, thus it must be: the Pope must not go to seek His pleasure: if God should deign to afford His Vicegerent the recreation of swimming, an opportunity would be provided. Otherwise—
Little footsteps pattered down the glade. His retreat was about to be invaded.
Three children burst through the shrubs—and stood transfixed. They were a couple of black-eyed black-haired girls, and a very pale-coloured very delicately-articulated slim and stalwart baby-boy with dark-star-like eyes and brows superbly drawn. All Hadrian’s fearful terror of children paralyzed Him. These limpid glances made Him feel such a hackneyed old sinner. But He showed no outward tremor, looking gently and genially at His visitors, and wondering what (in the name of all the gods) He ought to say or do. Three nurses and an athletic tailor-made lady added their presence.
“A thousand pardons, sir,” a nurse exclaimed;—“O Santissimo Padre!”—Six knees flopped on the ground.
“Missy,” the boy announced, “I have found a white father. Why have I seen a white father before never?” His utterance was very deliberate, and his English quite devoid of accented syllables.
The tailor-made lady rose to the occasion with an intuition which only could be feminine and a self-possession which only could be English. She bowed to the Pope, saying “Your Holiness will pardon the intrusion. The children escaped us at the fork in the path—”
“But it is a pleasure,” Hadrian hypocritically put in: “it is a pleasure,” He repeated, seeing that she was about to withdraw her charges; “and it would be a greater pleasure to know the names of these little ones.”
“The Prince Filiberto, the Princess Yolanda, and the Princess Mafalda,” the lady replied: “the Queen is giving a children’s picnic in Lady Demochede’s woods; and we took the liberty of trespassing here in search of wildflowers. Of course we had no idea—”
“Missy,” said the boy again, “I wish to speak to this white father.” He was standing with his exquisite fair little legs wide-apart, his little body splendidly poised; and his glance was the glance of a young lion.
“Is it permitted?” Hadrian inquired of the governess.
“Oh surely;” she assented with perfection of manner.
“I wish to ask this white father whether he can speak English words like me;” the youngster proclaimed, keeping at a distance until he had reconnoitred the position.
“Don’t be silly ’Berto, of course he can. This is Papa Inglese, I think;” said the Princess Yolanda with the daintiest air of regality. She was a very stately little person, and quite aware of herself; and her great black eyes were wonderful. Her younger sister sucked a silent thumb.
“Then I wish to know whether I may kiss that ring—the big one. I always kiss rings when fathers wear them,” her brother continued. He quite ingenuously offered his little token of regard, giving reasons for the same in the manner of one who is too noble to take advantage of ignorance or even of blind good-nature. Hadrian had not the faintest notion of what to say. He never in His life had spoken to a Royal Highness; and the childhood of the child had tied His tongue. He would not have hesitated for one moment to converse with an angel: indeed He would have been rather more than garrulous. But with a human baby boy! He extended His right hand.
The princelet took it: looked at it: looked from the great gold Little-Peter-in-a-Boat to the great amethyst; and pondered them. “I think I will kiss them both;” he said at length. The full soft rose-leaf of his lips flitted from the pontifical to
