“Don’t you think so?”
“Half the time. Do you ever have day dreams?” he asked Effie, pressing her cheek against his own.
“I don’t know what they are,” she murmured, with a soft little note of polite regret for her ignorance, if possibly it incommoded him.
“You will by and by,” he said, “and then you must look out for them. They’re particularly bad in this air. I had one of them in Florence once that lasted three months.”
“What was it about?” asked the child.
Imogene involuntarily bent forward.
“Ah, I can’t tell you now. She’s trying to hear us.”
“No, no,” protested the girl, with a laugh. “I was thinking of something else.”
“Oh, we know her, don’t we?” he said to the child, with a playful appeal to that passion for the joint possession of a mystery which all children have.
“We might whisper it,” she suggested.
“No; better wait for some other time.” They were sitting near a table where a pencil and some loose leaves of paper lay. He pulled his chair a little closer, and, with the child still upon his knee, began to scribble and sketch at random. “Ah, there’s San Miniato,” he said, with a glance from the window. “Must get its outline in. You’ve heard how there came to be a church up there? No? Well, it shows the sort of man San Miniato really was. He was one of the early Christians, and he gave the poor pagans a great deal of trouble. They first threw him to the wild beasts in the amphitheatre, but the moment those animals set eyes on him they saw it would be of no use; they just lay down and died. Very well, then; the pagans determined to see what effect the axe would have upon San Miniato: but as soon as they struck off his head he picked it up, set it back on his shoulders again, waded across the Arno, walked up the hill, and when he came to a convenient little oratory up there he knelt down and expired. Isn’t that a pretty good story? It’s like fairies, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” whispered the child.
“What nonsense!” said Imogene. “You made it up.”
“Oh, did I? Perhaps I built the church that stands there to commemorate the fact. It’s all in the history of Florence. Not in all histories; some of them are too proud to put such stories in, but I’m going to put every one I can find into the history I’m writing for Effie. San Miniato was beheaded where the church of Santa Candida stands now, and he walked all that distance.”
“Did he have to die when he got to the oratory?” asked the child, with gentle regret.
“It appears so,” said Colville, sketching. “He would have been dead by this time, anyway, you know.”
“Yes,” she reluctantly admitted.
“I never quite like those things, either, Effie,” he said, pressing her to him. “There were people cruelly put to death two or three thousand years ago that I can’t help feeling would be alive yet if they had been justly treated. There are a good many fairy stories about Florence; perhaps they used to be true stories; the truth seems to die out of stories after a while, simply because people stop believing them. Saint Ambrose of Milan restored the son of his host to life when he came down here to dedicate the Church of San Giovanni. Then there was another saint, San Zenobi, who worked a very pretty miracle after he was dead. They were carrying his body from the Church of San Giovanni to the Church of Santa Reparata, and in Piazza San Giovanni his bier touched a dead elm-tree that stood there, and the tree instantly sprang into leaf and flower, though it was in the middle of the winter. A great many people took the leaves home with them, and a marble pillar was put up there, with a cross and an elm-tree carved on it. Oh, the case is very well authenticated.”
“I shall really begin to think you believe such things,” said Imogene. “Perhaps you are a Catholic.”
Mrs. Bowen returned to the room, and sat down.
“There’s another fairy story, prettier yet,” said Colville, while the little girl drew a long deep breath of satisfaction and expectation. “You’ve heard of the Buondelmonti?” he asked Imogene.
“Oh, it seems to me as if I’d had nothing but the Buondelmonti dinned into me since I came to Florence!” she answered in lively despair.
“Ah, this happened some centuries before the Buondelmonte you’ve been bored with was born. This was Giovanni Gualberto of the Buondelmonti, and he was riding along one day in 1003, near the Church of San Miniato, when he met a certain man named Ugo, who had killed one of his brothers. Gualberto stopped and drew his sword; Ugo saw no other chance of escape, and he threw himself face downward on the ground, with his arms stretched out in the form of the cross. ‘Gualberto, remember Jesus Christ, who died upon the cross praying for His enemies.’ The story says that these words went to Gualberto’s heart; he got down from his horse, and in sign of pardon lifted his enemy and kissed and embraced him. Then they went together into the church, and fell on their knees before the figure of Christ upon the cross, and the figure bowed its head in sign of approval and pleasure in Gualberto’s noble act of Christian piety.”
“Beautiful!” murmured the girl; the child only sighed.
“Ah, yes; it’s an easy matter to pick up one’s head from the ground, and set it back on one’s shoulders, or to bring the dead to life, or to make a tree put forth leaves and flowers in midwinter; but to melt the heart of a man with forgiveness in the presence of his enemy—that’s a different thing; that’s
