pyre? It looked like one, as we hurried down the hills to San Massimo:
the whole hillside, dry grass, myrtle, and heather, all burning, the
pale short flames waving against the blue moonlit sky, and the old
fortress outlined black against the blaze.

_August 30._

Of Dionea I can tell you nothing certain. We speak of her as little as
we can. Some say they have seen her, on stormy nights, wandering among
the cliffs: but a sailor-boy assures me, by all the holy things, that
the day after the burning of the Castle Chapel--we never call it
anything else--he met at dawn, off the island of Palmaria, beyond the
Strait of Porto Venere, a Greek boat, with eyes painted on the prow,
going full sail to sea, the men singing as she went. And against the
mast, a robe of purple and gold about her, and a myrtle-wreath on her
head, leaned Dionea, singing words in an unknown tongue, the white
pigeons circling around her.




_Oke of Okehurst_


To COUNT PETER BOUTOURLINE,
_AT TAGANTCHA_,
GOVERNMENT OF KIEW, RUSSIA.

MY DEAR BOUTOURLINE,