We linger till the air is dim and mysterious, and the exquisite wreath of leaves on the archi-vault of the triumphal arch begins to get blurred, clean-cut and fresh though it is. But something seems to creep up out of the earth, to swarm round out of the mountains till there might be seen or felt a shadowy throng—inchoate presences that stream through the arch and crowd round the foot of the unresting monument.
Barbara judiciously looks at her watch. And we rise and walk slowly back to our hotel along the white road, silent, and perhaps rather sad.
CHAPTER XX
AN INN PARLOUR
"O princesso di Baus! Ugueto,
Sibilo, Blanco-Flour, Bausseto,
Que trounavais amount sus li roucas aurin,
Cors subre-bèu, amo galoio,
Dounant l'amour, largant la joio
E la lumiero, li mount-joio