cers called out
in French what we were to do, and the mistakes we made added to the
amusement. Frequently there was a promenade, the partners walking
arm-in-arm round the room, which gave time to recover ourselves when we
had got into any great confusion. Sometimes he who directs the
contraddanza is so fertile in invention that he can make it last two
hours. I do not think any that I danced lasted above half an hour, and
they always ended by our promenading away to the buffet, which was under
the joyous direction of Berto's father. Here we ate sweetmeats and cakes
and drank rosolio, which is any kind of light liqueur.

Berto's brother Nicolao took me away at 3 a.m., and I wanted someone to
show me the road because the cloud was still on the Mountain, and they do
not keep the streets lighted all night. But the rest danced for another
hour and then departed, leaving Berto's mother to attend to the bride and
to stay in the house.

Next day at noon we all called to inquire and I remained to dinner at
two. While we were at table we heard the drum beating a Saracen rhythm
and went to the window. It was the festa of S. Francesco da Paola; he
was coming out of his church and going up to the balio on the top of the
Mountain. The fog had cleared away, leaving a few light clouds whose
shadows chased one another across the campagna and out to sea, where they
played with the islands that were swimming in it, each separate and
distinct in the brightness like those on a China plate. S. Francesco
turned his back to the islands; he had not come out to bless the sea.
Nor had he come to bless Cofano; he knew it was beyond his power to make
that rocky wilderness to blossom as a rose. The translucent mountains
stood back in a rugged amphitheatre before him, reverently saluting the
throne of Venus; he acknowledged their salute, but he did not bless the
barren mountains; he remembered the words of his Master: To him that hath
shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away even that
which he seemeth to have.

Good old San Cicciu da Paola turned his eyes away from the mountains and
looked down upon the exuberance of the campagna. Every patch was a
mother's breast suckling the young bread and wine and oil, making the
little figs to swell on their branches and the big blobby oranges to grow
bigger and blobbier among their leaves. The salad was pushing, pushing
up through the soil; peaches, apples, pears, medlars and