He went on to relate, that for a long While the knight found infinite pleasure and comfort in the friendship of the fountain nymph.  In his merriest hours, she gladdened him with her sportive humor.  If ever he was annoyed with earthly trouble, she laid her moist hand upon his brow, and charmed the fret and fever quite away.

But one day—­one fatal noontide—­the young knight came rushing with hasty and irregular steps to the accustomed fountain.  He called the nymph; but—­no doubt because there was something unusual and frightful in his tone she did not appear, nor answer him.  He flung himself down, and washed his hands and bathed his feverish brow in the cool, pure water.  And then there was a sound of woe; it might have been a woman’s voice; it might have been only the sighing of the brook over the pebbles.  The water shrank away from the youth’s hands, and left his brow as dry and feverish as before.

Donatello here came to a dead pause.

“Why did the water shrink from this unhappy knight?” inquired the sculptor.

“Because he had tried to wash off a bloodstain!” said the young Count, in a horror-stricken whisper.  “The guilty man had polluted the pure water.  The nymph might have comforted him in sorrow, but could not cleanse his conscience of a crime.”

“And did he never behold her more?” asked Kenyon.

“Never but once,” replied his friend.  “He never beheld her blessed face but once again, and then there was a blood-stain on the poor nymph’s brow; it was the stain his guilt had left in the fountain where he tried to wash it off.  He mourned for her his whole life long, and employed the best sculptor of the time to carve this statue of the nymph from his description of her aspect.  But, though my ancestor would fain have had the image wear her happiest look, the artist, unlike yourself, was so impressed with the mournfulness of the story, that, in spite of his best efforts, he made her forlorn, and forever weeping, as you see!”

Kenyon found a certain charm in this simple legend.  Whether so intended or not, he understood it as an apologue, typifying the soothing and genial effects of an habitual intercourse with nature in all ordinary cares and griefs; while, on the other hand, her mild influences fall short in their effect upon the ruder passions, and are altogether powerless in the dread fever-fit or deadly chill of guilt.

“Do you say,” he asked, “that the nymph’s race has never since been shown to any mortal?  Methinks you, by your native qualities, are as well entitled to her favor as ever your progenitor could have been.  Why have you not summoned her?”

“I called her often when I was a silly child,” answered Donatello; and he added, in an inward voice, “Thank Heaven, she did not come!”

“Then you never saw her?” said the sculptor.