CHAPTER<br >ONE.<br >It was bright noon， high summer， in the upland valleys of<br >Tuscany: a torpid time， a season ot dust and languor， of<br >stripped flax and larks in the wheat stubble， and new wines<br >coming to yintage in the country of the Elder Gods. It was<br >!an hour of bells， undulant in a dry air， tranquil over the<br >:tombs of dead saints and the feuds of forgotten mercenaries.<br >w~hWaS a persuasion to darkness and drawn shutters， since<br > o but dogs and Americans would expose their foolish<br >foreheads to an August sun at midday?<br > In the village of San Stefano， the first strokes of the<br >Angelus were sounding over the square. The bell-ringer was<br >old and the music of his chimes was muted. The village was<br >drowsy and replete with a good harvest; so the last pas-<br >sages of its morning life were muted too.<br > An old man stopped， crossed himself and stood with<br >bowed head as the triple tones rang out from the white<br >campanile. A tubby fellow in a white apron with a<br >checkerboard napkin over his arm stood at the door of the<br >restaurant and picked his teeth with a match. A mule-faced<br >policeman made a tentative step outside his door， squinted<br >languidly round the square， spat， scratched himself， and<br >then wandered back to his wine and cheese.<br > Water welled sluggishly from the mouths of tired dol-<br ><br >
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