flute of reed, from which he drew a feeble sound of music. Then he began
to sing in a voice that left the words barely distinguishable:


Laughing she fled,
Her teeth in the golden grape;
After I sped,
And clasping her flying shape,
I quenched my drouth
On the fruit at her mouth.


Astounded at these strange sights and sounds, Fra Mino crossed himself.
Still the old man showed no mark of confusion, but cast a long and
artless look at the Monk. Amid the deep wrinkles that scored his face,
the clear blue eyes sparkled like the waters of a spring through the
rugged bark of a grove of oaks.

"Man or beast," shrilled Mino, "I command you in the name of the Saviour
to say who you are."

"My son," replied the old man, "I am San Satiro! Speak not so loud, for
fear of frightening the birds."

Then Fra Mino resumed, in a quieter tone:

"Forasmuch, old man, as you shrank not before the dread sign of the
Cross, I cannot hold you to be a demon or some foul spirit escaped out
of Hell. But if verily and indeed you are a man, as you say you are, or
rather the soul of a man sanctified by the deeds of a good life and by