had these jocund boys
in charge.

I could not but hesitate awhile as I surveyed them. These were no
mortal children playing naked amid the rose of evening: nor she who
sat veiled and beautiful beneath the ruinous tombs. I turned with
sudden dismay to depart from their presence unobserved as I had
entered; but the children had now espied me, and came running, filled
with wonder of Rosinante and the stranger beside her.

They stayed at a little distance from us with dwelling eyes and parted
lips. Then the fairer and, as it seemed to me, elder of the brothers
stooped and plucked a few blades of grass and proffered them, half
fearfully, to the beast that amazed him. But the other gave less heed
to Rosinante, fixed the filmy lustre of his eyes on me, his wonderful
young face veiled with that wisdom which is in all children, and of an
immutable gravity.

But by this time, she who it seemed had the charge of these children
had followed them with her eyes. To her then, leaving Rosinante in an
ecstasy of timidity before such god-like boys, I addressed myself.

So might a traveller lost beneath strange stars address unanswering
Night. She, however, raised a compassionate face to me and listened
with happy seriousness as to a child returned in safety at evening
from some foolhardy venture. Yet there seemed only a deeper
youthfulness in her face for all its eternity of brooding on her
beauteous children. Narrow leaves of olive formed her chaplet. The
darker wine-colours of the sea changed in her eyes. There was no sense
of gloom or sorrowfulness in her company. I began to see how the same
still breast might bear celestial children so diverse as these, whose
names, she told me presently, were Sleep and Death.

I looked at the two children at play, "Ah! now," I said, almost
involuntarily "the golden boy who has caught my horse's bridle in his
hand, is not he Sleep? and he who considers his brother's
boldness--that one is Death?"

She smiled with lovely vanity, and told me how strange of heart young
children are. How they will alter and vary, never the same for long
together, but led by indiscoverable caprices and obedient to some
further will. She smiled and said how that sometimes, when the birds
hush suddenly from song, Sleep would creep tenderly and sadly to her
knees, and Death clasp her roguishly, as if in some secret with the
beams of morning. So would they change, one to the likeness of the
other. But Sleep was, perhap