.

Against the whitewashed wall, on a deal board, among the onions and
seeds, lay a flute ready to be put to the lips. A round walnut table
bore a stone tobacco-jar, a pipe, a bottle of wine and some glasses. The
gardener offered each of his guests a cane-seated chair, and himself sat
down on a stool by the table.

He was a sturdy old man; thick grey hair stood up on his head, he had a
furrowed brow, a snub-nose, a red face, and a forked beard.

The big mastiff stretched himself at his master's feet, rested his short
black muzzle on his paws, and closed his eyes. The gardener poured out
some wine for his guests, and when they had drunk and talked a little,
Zita said to Nectaire:

"Please play your flute to us, you will give pleasure to my friend whom
I have brought to see you."

The old man immediately consented. He put the boxwood pipe to his
lips,--so clumsy was it that it looked as if the gardener had fashioned
it himself,--and preluded with a few strange runs. Then he developed
rich melodies in which the thrills sparkled like diamonds and pearls on
a velvet ground. Touched by cunning fingers, animated with creative
breath, the rustic pipe sang like a silver flute. There were no
over-shrill notes and the tone was always even and pure. One seemed to
be listening to the nightingale and the Muses singing together, the soul
of Nature and the soul of Man. And the old man ordered and developed his
thoughts in a musical language full of grace and daring. He told of
love, of fear, of vain quarrels, of all-conquering laughter, of the
calm light of the intellect, of the arrows of the mind piercing with
their golden shafts the monsters of Ignorance and Hate. He told also of
Joy and Sorrow bending their twin heads over the earth and of Desire
which brings worlds into being.

The whole night listened to the flute of Nectaire. Already the evening
star was rising above the paling horizon.

There they sat; Zita with hands clasped about her knees, Arcade, his
head leaning on his hand, his lips apart. Motionless they listened. A
lark, which had awakened hard by in a sandy field, lured by these novel
sounds, rose swiftly in the air, hovered a few seconds, then dropped at
one swoop into the musician's orchard. The neighbouring sparrows,
forsaking the crannies of the mouldering walls, came and sat in a row on
the window-ledge whence notes came welling forth that gave them more
delight than oats or grains of barley. A jay, coming