He crossed the Aco, and struck bravely forward, up the smooth
lawns, under the bending trees, towards the castle.

The sun was setting. The irregular mass of buildings stood out
in varying shades of blue, against varying, dying shades of
red.

Half way there, Peter stopped, and looked back.

The level sunshine turned the black forests of the Gnisi to
shining forests of bronze, and the foaming cascade that leapt
down its side to a cascade of liquid gold. The lake, for the
greater part, lay in shadow, violet-grey through a pearl-grey
veil of mist; but along the opposite shore it caught the light,
and gleamed a crescent of quicksilver, with roseate
reflections. The three snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito, at the
valley's end, seemed almost insubstantial--floating forms of
luminous pink vapour, above the hazy horizon, in a pure sky
intensely blue.

A familiar verse came into Peter's mind.

"Really,"' he said to himself, "down to the very 'cataract
leaping in glory,' I believe they must have pre-arranged the
scene, feature for feature, to illustrate it." And he began to
repeat the vivid, musical lines, under his breath . . .

But about midway of them he was interrupted.

"It's not altogether a bad sort of view--is it?" a voice asked,
behind him.

Peter faced about.

On a marble bench, under a feathery acacia; a few yards away, a
lady was seated, looking at him, smiling.