Down the road a peasant was merrily beating his donkey to the measure of the tune on his lips. Listening, and turning over many questions in her mind, Daphne fell asleep. A flood of sunshine awakened her in the morning, and she realized that Assunta was drawing the window curtains. "Assunta," asked the girl, sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes, "are there many Americans here?" "Si," answered Assunta, "very many." "And many English?" "Too many," said Assunta. "Young ones?" asked the girl. Assunta shrugged her shoulders. "Young men?" inquired Daphne. The peasant woman looked sharply at her, then smiled. "I saw one man yesterday," said Daphne, her forehead puckered painfully in what Assunta mistook for a look of fear. Her carefully prepared phrases could get no nearer the problem she wished solved. "Ma che! agnellina mia, my little lamb!" cried the peasant woman, grasping Daphne's hand in order to kiss her fingers, "you are safe, safe with us. No Americans nor English shall dare to look at the Signorina in the presence of Giacomo and me." CHAPTER IV It was not a high wall, that is, not very high. Many a time in the country Daphne had climbed more formidable ones, and there was no reason why she should not try this. No one was in sight except a shepherd, watching a great flock of sheep. There was a forgotten rose garden over in that field; had Caesar planted it, or Tiberius, centuries ago? Certainly no one had tended it for a thousand years or two, and the late pink roses grew unchecked. Daphne slowly worked her way to the top of the wall; this close masonry made the proceeding more difficult than it usually was at home. She stood for a moment on the summit, glorying in the widened view, then sprang, with the lightness of a kitten, to the other side. There was a skurry of frightened sheep, and then a silence. She knew that she was sitting on the grass, and that her left wrist pained. Some one was coming toward her. "Are you hurt?" asked Apollo anxiously. "Not at all," she answered, continuing to sit on the grass. "If you were hurt, where would it be?" "In my wrist," said the girl, with a little groan. The questioner kneeled beside her, and Daphne gave a start of surprise that was touched with fear. "It isn't you?" she stammered. "You aren't the shepherd?" A sheepskin coat disguised him. The rough hat was of soft drooping felt, like that of any shepherd watching on the hills, and in his hand he held a crook. An anxious mother-sheep was sniffing eagerly at his pockets, remembering gifts of salt. "Apollo was a shepherd," said Daphne slowly, with wonder in her face. "He kept the flocks of King Admetus." "You seem to be well read in the classical dictionary," remarked the stranger, with twinkling eyes. "You have them in America then?" He was examining her wrist with practiced fingers, touching it firmly here and there. "We have everything in America," said the girl, eyeing him dubiously.