“The snow has melted in the valley, the sky is clear. We will wander forth—to the south first, and back on foot when the trees blossom.”
They started off in the early morning. An old peasant, leaning somewhat heavily on his solid staff of hickory wood, a young peasant, silent, unsmiling. Angela put paper and crayon in his knapsack.
“Bring me pictures; they tell more than words.”
They tramped through valleys, over hills, jumping on hay-wagons, climbing into stage-coaches, riding the sure-footed mountain pony. The pastor watched Martin. There were blood streaks in his eyes; his face was like a wax mask.
They came to lovely Lugano, the Fatima in Switzerland’s harem of beauties, warm, passionate—the soft Italian patois, Italian air, Italian skies.
“Over there across the lake is Milan, Rome, the Raphael frescoes.”
Martin’s eyes gleamed; then he shook his head. The pastor sighed—would he ever wake up?
Geneva—intellectual, proud of its men of genius. They walked through Rousseau’s Island of Exile.
“He was greatly gifted,” said the pastor, “but the victim of his own sensuality.”