One bright morning she took from a coffer a prism of rock-crystal. “This is one of the playthings my father gave me,” she said. “Look how it makes the colors dance upon the wall.”
Like a quick silent fairy the little rainbow flitted here and there. “He told me,” she went on, “that seven invisible colors live together in a sunbeam, but when they pass this magic door they must go in single file, and then we may see them. Not all are good colors. Some are bad and quarrelsome, and some are good when they are alone, but not when they are with colors they do not like. But when they live together in peace they make the beautiful clear daylight, and we see the world exactly as it is.”
“As it is—saints protect her,” muttered old Maddalena, and the jester smiled his twisted smile.
That evening Stefano said suddenly, “What are you going to do with your clerk?”
“To-morrow,” said Alan, “I shall go to his mine.”
“You have not been there?”
“No; he has made some silly excuse each time it has been suggested.”
“He will never take you there,” said the jester. “You will see.”
“Simon,” said Alan pleasantly that night, “I am going into the mountains with you to-morrow.”
Suspicion, fear, jealous greed, chased one another over the clerk's mean face. “You are in great haste,” he muttered. “It is not good weather, but we will go of course, if you wish.”