Italy--visitors unrecorded in the hotels, unnoted by the
guides, but of greater interest than many tourists.

I, listening idly to him, caught my breath at the flight of flaming,
rosy flamingoes that lighted inland, just beyond us, miracles of
flower-like beauty.

"From Egypt, _excellenz'_: They are not due till November, but the
winter will be cold and they started early. In March they will start
back. Why? How should I know? Who sends the wild duck, for that
matter? I have seen a half-mile of them at one flight bound for this
place. It may be the good God warns them and they go."

"It may be, Rafaello."

"But then, _excellenz'_, does he send the brown water-hens, too, and
if so, why not tell them of the young nobleman whom I brought here to
shoot only last week? Is it likely God did not know I would bring him?
Of course not."

"Perhaps they know, but must go, nevertheless," I ventured, and we
were silent and thoughtful. Did they? Did they fly, helpless, to their
death, bound by some fatal certainty? Was Alif right, and is it
written for us all?

"That young Roman was very generous," Rafaello resumed after a while.
"A few more like him, and she will think twice before she refuses
again. How I bear it, I can't tell. Pettish she is, certainly, but oh,
_signore_, lovely, lovely, like _un angiolin'_! It was from a
nobleman--a foreigner, anyway, I suppose it is all one--that old
'Cina got her money, Lippo thinks. He hunted, too, Lippo says, and
'Cina's brother waited on him--he came from these parts. He took her
brother north with him afterward, and well he did, too, for not many
good Catholics would help him in what he did, and that brother was
wicked enough, I suppose. She has little enough religion herself, the
old woman--they say her money is for making peace with the church. For
when it comes to the last rattle in the throat, _excellenz'_, the
boldest is glad of a little help," said Rafaello knowingly.

Night was on us now, and I, well knowing that the air was poisonous
for me, could not bring myself to order the boat home. There, while
Perseus burned above us and off toward Rome Orion hung steady as a
lamp in a shrine, I lost myself in strange, deep thinking, and the
marshes were the desert for me and Alif and Rafaello were the same,
and I--who was I? What was I?

"The _signore_ sleeps?" the man inquired timidly. "I think it is not
good to sleep here. Shall we go back?"

"I'm not sleeping, Rafaello, but I