too, another side of the man, just as vigorous and as real, were these
intrusions of poetry wise or desirable? Were they in place? Was the note of
them quite right? Was it not a little turbid--uncertain?

That prose poem of 'The Priest of Nemi,' for example?

Ah! Nemi!--the mere thought of it sent a thrill of pleasure through her.
That blue lake in its green cup on the edge of the Campagna, with its ruins
and its legends--what golden hours had she and Manisty spent there! It
had caught their fancy from the beginning--the site of the great temple,
the wild strawberry fields, the great cliffs of Nemi and Genzano, the
bright-faced dark-eyed peasants with their classical names--Aristodemo,
Oreste, Evandro.

And that strange legend of the murdered priest--

'The priest who slew the slayer,
And shall himself be slain'--

--what modern could not find something in that--some stimulus to
fancy--some hint for dreaming?

Yes--it had been very natural--very tempting. But!--

... So she pondered,--a number of acute, critical instincts coming into
play. And presently her thoughts spread and became a vague reverie,
covering a multitude of ideas and images that she and Manisty now had
in common. How strange that she and he should be engaged in this work
together!--this impassioned defence of tradition, of Catholicism and the
Papacy, as the imperishable, indestructible things--'chastened and not