I turned and looked at her.  With all my heart I tried to be grave and severe, but the mock-demure look on her face caused me weakly to laugh.  And then it was good-bye to all my dignity.

“Lucy, I wish you would not tease me,” I said, still more weakly.

“Poor Toto! give it bon-bons!  It shall not be teased, then,” she said.

Before we parted, I had promised to come and see her at her country house within ten days.  And so, with a new brightness in her face, Saint Lucy of the Eyes came back to my heart, and came to stay.

It was mid-April when I started for Castel del Monte.  It was spring, and I was going to see my love.  The land about on either side, as I went, was faintly flushed with peach-blossom shining among the hoary stones.  By the cliff edge the spiny cactus threw out strange withered arms.  A whitethorn without spike or spine gracefully wept floods of blonde tears.

At a little port by the sea-edge I left the main route, and fared onward up into the mountains.  A mule carried my baggage; and the muleteer who guided it looked like a mountebank in a garb rusty like withered leaves.  Like withered leaf, too, he danced up the hillside, scaling the long array of steps which led through the olives toward Castel del Monte.  Some of his antics amused me, until I saw that none of them amused himself, and that through all the contortions of his face his eyes remained fixed, joyless, tragic.

Castel del Monte sat on the hill-top, eminent, far-beholding.  Vine-stakes ran up hill and down dale, all about it.  White houses were sprinkled here and there.  As we ascended, the sea sank beneath, and the shining dashes of the wave-crests diminished to sparkling pin-points.  Then with oriental suddenness the sun went down.  Still upward fared the joyless farceur, and still upon the soles of my feet, and with my pilgrim staff in my hand, I followed.

Sometimes the sprays of fragrant blossom swept across our faces.  Sometimes a man stepped out from the roadside and challenged; but, on receiving a word of salutation from my knave, he returned to his place with a sharp clank of accoutrement.

White blocks of building moved up to us in the equal dusk of the evening, took shape for a moment, and vanished behind us.  The summit of the mountain ceased to frown.  The strain of climbing was taken from the mechanic movement of the feet.  The mule sent a greeting to his kind; and some other white mountain, larger, more broken as to its sky-line, moved in front of us and stayed.

“Castel del Monte!” said the muleteer, wrinkling all the queer puckered leather of his visage in the strong light which streamed out as the great door opened.  A most dignified Venetian senator, in the black and radiant linen of the time, came forth to meet me, and with the utmost respect ushered me within.  In my campaigning dress and broad-brimmed hat, I felt that my appearance was unworthy of the grandeur of the entrance-hall, of the suits of armour, the vast pictures, and the massive last-century furniture in crimson and gold.