“Don’t you know what a divo is?” asked Annunziata, her clear grey eyes surprised.

“Oh, a divo?” said Maria Dolores, getting a glimmer of light.  “Ah, yes, a divo is a saint, I think?

“Not exactly,” Annunziata discriminated, “but something like one.  The saints, you see, are always very good, and divi are sometimes bad.  But they are powerful, like saints.  They can do anything they wish.  Divo Pan is the divo who makes all the music that you hear out of doors,—­the music of the wind and the water and the bird-songs.  But you must be careful never to praise his music aloud, lest Divo Apollone should hear you.  He is the divo that makes all the music you hear on instruments—­on harps and violins and pianos.  He is very jealous of Divo Pan, and if he hears you praising him, will do something to you.  You know what he did to King Mida, don’t you?”

“What did he do?” asked Maria Dolores.

Annunziata stole another wary glance about.

“Once upon a time,” she recounted, always in her lowest voice, “many years ago, hundreds of years ago, the King of this country was named Mida.  And he loved very much the music of Divo Pan.  He loved to sit by the river here, and to listen to the music of the water, and of the leaves, and of the birds.  I love to do it too, and I think he was quite right.  But one day, in his house, there came a musician with a harp, and began to play to him.  And the King listened for a while, and then he told the musician to stop.  ‘Your music is very good,’ he said, ’but now I am going into the fields and by the river, where I can hear a music I like better.’  But the musician with the harp was really Divo Apollone himself; disguised.  And this made him very angry and jealous.  And to punish King Mida he changed his ears to long hairy ears, like an ass’s.  So, if you love the music of Divo Pan, you must be very careful not to let Divo Apollone hear you praise it, or he will do something to you.”

And to drive home this application of her theme, she held up a warning finger.

Maria Dolores had listened, smiling.  Now she gave a gay little laugh, and then for a moment mused.  “That is a very curious bit of history,” she said, in the end.  “How ever did it come to your knowledge?”

Annunziata shrugged.  “Oh,” she answered, “everybody knows that.  I have known it for years.  My grandmother who lived in Milan told it to me.  Doesn’t the water look cool and pleasant?” was her abrupt digression, as she returned her gaze to the Rampio.  “When it is hot like this, I should like to lie down in the water, and go to sleep.  Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not so sure,” said Maria Dolores.  “I should rather fear I might be drowned.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t hurt,” said Annunziata, with security.  “To be drowned in such beautiful green water, among all those beams of light, would be nice.”

“Perhaps you are not aware,” said Maria Dolores, “that when people are drowned they die?”