ith the forest
paths, I would gather mulberries and sloes, and lay them on leaves at
the threshold of their grotto, and make them little presents of plovers'
eggs. Then, if they were building a cabin, I would carry the timber and
stones for them on my back. In gratitude, they poured water on my brow,
invoking on my head the peace of Jesus Christ.

"So I lived with them and in their way; and those who loved them, loved
me. As they were honoured, so was I, and my sanctity seemed as great as
theirs.

"I have told you, my son, I was already very old in those days. The sun
had scarce heat enough to warm my benumbed limbs. I was no better than
an old rotten tree, that has lost its crown of fresh leaves and singing
birds. Each returning Autumn brought my end nearer; and one Winter's
morning they found me stretched motionless by the roadside.

"The Bishop, followed by his Priests and all the people, celebrated my
obsequies. Then I was laid in a great tomb of white marble, marked in
three places with the sign of the Cross, and bearing carved on the slab
in front the words _Sanctus Satyrus_, within a garland of roses.

"In those times, my son, tombs were erected along the roadsides. Mine
was placed two miles out from the city, on the Florence road. A young
plane-tree grew up over it, and threw its shadow across it, dappled with
sunlight and full of bird songs and twitterings, freshness and joy. Near
by, a fountain flowed over a bed of water-weed, where the boys and girls
came laughing merrily to bathe together. It was a charming spot--and
soon a holy one as well. Thither young mothers would bring their babies
and let them touch the marble of the tomb, that they might grow up
sturdy and straight in all their limbs. The country folk one and all
believed that new-born infants presented at my grave must one day
surpass their fellows in strength and courage. This is why they brought
me all the flower of the gallant Tuscan race. Moreover the peasants
often led their asses thither in hopes of making them prolific. My
memory was revered; each year at the return of Spring, the Bishop used
to come with his Clergy to pray over my bones, and I could watch far
away through the meadow grass the slow approach of Cross and Candle in
procession, the scarlet canopy, and the chanting acolytes. Thus it was,
my son, in the days of good King Berengar.

"Meantime, the Satyrs and the Satyr girls, the Fauns and Nymphs, dragged
out a wretched, wander