The questioner kneeled beside her, and Daphne gave a start of surprise that was touched with fear.

"It isn't you?" she stammered. "You aren't the shepherd?"

A sheepskin coat disguised him. The rough hat was of soft drooping felt, like that of any shepherd watching on the hills, and in his hand he held a crook. An anxious mother-sheep was sniffing eagerly at his pockets, remembering gifts of salt.

"Apollo was a shepherd," said Daphne slowly, with wonder in her face.

"He kept the flocks of King Admetus."

"You seem to be well read in the cla.s.sical dictionary," remarked the stranger, with twinkling eyes. "You have them in America then?"

He was examining her wrist with practiced fingers, touching it firmly here and there.

"We have everything in America," said the girl, eyeing him dubiously.

"But no G.o.ds except money, I have heard."

"Yes, G.o.ds, and impostors too," she answered significantly.

"So I have heard," said Apollo, with composure.

The maddening thing was that she could not look away from him--some radiance of life in his face compelled her eyes. He had thrown his hat upon the gra.s.s, and the girl could see strength and sweetness and repose in every line of forehead, lip, and chin. There was pride there, too, and with it a slight leaning forward of the head.

"I presume that comes from listening to beseeching prayers," she was thinking to herself.

"Ow!" she remarked suddenly.

"That is the place, is it?"

He drew from one of the pockets of the grotesque coat a piece of sheepskin, which he proceeded to cut into two strips with his knife.

"It seems to be a very slight sprain," remarked Apollo. "I must bandage it. Have you any pins about you?"

"Can the G.o.ds lack pins?" asked the girl, smiling. She searched, and found two in her belt, and handed them to him.

"The G.o.ds do not explain themselves," he answered, binding the sheepskin tightly about her wrist.

"So I observe," she remarked dryly.

"Is that right?" he asked. "Now, when you reach home, you must remove the bandage and hold your hand and wrist first in very hot water, then in cold. Is there some one who can put the bandage back as I have it?

See, it simply goes about the wrist, and is rather tight. You must pardon my taking possession of the case, but no one else was near.

Apollo has always been something of a physician, you know."

"You apparently used the same cla.s.sical dictionary that I did,"

retorted Daphne. "I remember the statement there."

Then she became uncomfortable, and wished her words unsaid, for awe had come upon her. After all, nothing could be more unreal than she was to herself in these days of wonder. Her mind was full of dreams as they sat and watched white clouds drifting over the deep blue of the sky.

Near them the sheep were cropping gra.s.s, and all the rest was silence.

"You look anxious," said the physician. "Is it the wrist?"

"No," answered the girl, facing him bravely, under the momentary inspiration of a wave of common sense, "I am wondering why you make this ridiculous a.s.sumption about yourself. Tell me who you really are."

If he had defended himself she would have argued, but he was silent and she half believed.

"But you look like a mortal," she protested, answering her own thoughts. "And you wear conventional clothing. I don't mean this sheepskin, but the other day."

"It is a realistic age," he answered, smiling. "People no longer believe what they do not see. We are forced to adopt modern methods and modern costume to show that we exist."

"You do not look like the statue of Apollo," ventured Daphne.

"Did people ever dare tell the truth about the G.o.ds? Never! They made up a notion of what a divine nose should be and bestowed it upon all the G.o.ds impartially. So with the forehead, so with the hair. I a.s.sure you, Miss Willis, we are much more individual than Greek art would lead you to expect."

"Do you mind just telling me why you are keeping sheep now?"

"I will, if you will promise not to consider a question of mine impertinent."

"What is the question?"

"I only wished to know why an American young lady should bear a Greek name? It is a beautiful name, and one that is a favorite of mine as you may know."

"I didn't know," said Daphne. "It was given me by my father. He was born in America, but he had a Greek soul. He has always longed to live in Greece, but he has to go on preaching, preaching, for he is a rector, you know, in a little church in New York, that isn't very rich, though it is very old. All his life he has been hungry for the beauty and the greatness of the world over here."

"That accounts for your expression," observed Apollo.

"What expression?"

"That isn't the question I promised to answer. If you will take a few steps out of your way, I can satisfy you in regard to the first one you asked."

He rose, and the white shepherd dog sprang ahead, barking joyously. The sheep looked up and nibbled in anxious haste, fearing that any other bit of pasture might be less juicy than this. Daphne followed the shepherd G.o.d to a little clump of oak trees, where she saw a small, rough gray tent, perhaps four feet in height. Under it, on brown blankets, lay a bearded man, whose eyes lighted at Apollo's approach.

A blue bowl with a silver spoon in it stood on the ground near his head, and a small heap of charred sticks with an overhanging kettle showed that cooking had been done there.

"The shepherd has a touch of fever," explained the guide. "Meanwhile, somebody must take care of the sheep. I am glad to get back my two occupations as shepherd and physician at the same time."

The dog and his master accompanied her part way down the hill, and the girl was silent, for her mind was busy, revolving many thoughts. At the top of the last height above the villa she stopped and looked at her companion. The sun was setting, and a golden haze filled the air.

It ringed with light the figure before her, standing there, the face, with its beauty of color, and its almost insolent joyousness, rising above the rough sheepskin coat.

"Who are you?" she gasped, terrified. "Who are you, really?" The confused splendor dazzled her eyes, and she turned and ran swiftly down the hill.

CHAPTER V

"A man is ill," observed Daphne, in the Roman tongue.

"What?" demanded Giacomo.

"A man is ill," repeated Daphne firmly. She had written it out, and she knew that it was right.