“Well, you see they did it; and the old bishop, he had his ears sealed up tight, and so did all the men; but the young man stood tied to the mast, and when they sailed past he was like a demented creature.  He called out that it was his lady who was singing, and he wanted to go to her,—­and his mother, who they all knew was a blessed saint in paradise years before; and he commanded them to untie him, and pulled and strained on his cords to get free; but they only tied him the tighter, and so they got him past,—­for, thanks to the holy wax, the sailors never heard a word, and so they kept their senses.  So they all got safe home; but the young prince was so sick and pining that he had to be exorcised and prayed for seven times seven days before they could get the music out of his head.”

“Why,” said Agnes, “do those Sirens sing there yet?”

“Well, that was a hundred years ago.  They say the old bishop, he prayed ’em down; for he went out a little after on purpose, and gave ’em a precious lot of holy water; most likely he got ’em pretty well under, though my husband’s brother says he’s heard ’em singing in a small way, like frogs in spring-time; but he gave ’em a pretty wide berth.  You see, these spirits are what’s left of old heathen times, when, Lord bless us! the earth was just as full of ’em as a bit of old cheese is of mites.  Now a Christian body, if they take reasonable care, can walk quit of ’em; and if they have any haunts in lonesome and doleful places, if one puts up a cross or a shrine, they know they have to go.”

“I am thinking,” said Agnes, “it would be a blessed work to put up some shrines to Saint Agnes and our good Lord in the gorge, and I’ll promise to keep the lamps burning and the flowers in order.”

“Bless the child!” said Jocunda, “that is a pious and Christian thought.”

“I have an uncle in Florence who is a father in the holy convent of San Marco, who paints and works in stone,—­not for money, but for the glory of God; and when he comes this way I will speak to him about it,” said Agnes.  “About this time in the spring he always visits us.”

“That’s mighty well thought of,” said Jocunda.  “And now, tell me, little lamb, have you any idea who this grand cavalier may be that gave you the ring?”

“No,” said Agnes, pausing a moment over the garland of flowers she was weaving,—­“only Giulietta told me that he was brother to the King.  Giulietta said everybody knew him.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Jocunda.  “Giulietta always thinks she knows more than she does.”

“Whatever he may be, his worldly state is nothing to me,” said Agnes.  “I know him only in my prayers.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the old woman to herself, looking obliquely out of the corner of her eye at the girl, who was busily sorting her flowers; “perhaps he will be seeking some other acquaintance.”

“You haven’t seen him since?” said Jocunda.