From another stone near at hand Bertuccio watched them with eyes that feigned not to see. Bertuccio did not understand English, but he understood everything else. Goodly shares of the nectar and ambrosia of this feast had fallen to his lot, and Bertuccio in his own way was almost as happy as the lovers. In the soft grass near San Pietro Martire nibbled peacefully, now and then lifting his eyes to see what was going on. Once he brayed. He alone, of all nature, seemed impervious to the joy that had descended upon earth. It was only an hour since Daphne had been overtaken. Few words had sufficed for understanding, and Bertuccio had looked away. "My only fear was that I should find you turned into a laurel tree," said Apollo. "I shall always be afraid of that." "Apollo," said Daphne irrelevantly, holding out to him a bunch of purple grapes in the palm of her hand, "there is a practical side to all this. People will have to know, I am afraid. I must write to my sister." "I have reason to think that the Countess Accolanti will not be displeased," he answered. There was a queer little look about his mouth, but Daphne asked for no explanation. "There is your father," he suggested. "Oh!" said Daphne. "He will love you at once. His tastes and mine are very much alike." The lover-god smiled, quite satisfied. "You chose the steepest road of all to-day, little girl," he said. "But it is not half so long nor so hard as the one I expected to climb to find you." "You are tired!" said Daphne anxiously. "Rest." Bertuccio was sleeping on his flat rock; San Pietro lay down for a brief, ascetic slumber. The lovers sat side by side, with the mystery of beauty about them: the purple and gold of nearness and distance; bright color of green grass near, sombre tint of cypress and stone pine afar. "I shall never really know whether you are a god or not," said Daphne dreamily. "A very proper attitude for a woman to have toward her husband," he answered with a smile. "I must try hard to live up to the character. You will want to live on Olympus, and you really ought, if you are going to wear gowns woven of my sunbeams like the one you had on yesterday. How shall I convince you that Rome must do part of the time? You will want me to make you immortal: that always happens when a maiden marries a god." "I think you have done that already," said Daphne.