Annunziata started and looked up. "Sh-h!" she whispered, with an admonitory gesture. She stole a wary glance roundabout, and then spoke as one fearful of being overheard. "I was listening to the music of Divopan," she said. Maria Dolores, who had come closer, appeared at a loss. "The music of--what?" she questioned. "Sh-h!" whispered Annunziata. "I would not dare to say it aloud. The music of Divopan." "Divopan?" Maria Dolores puzzled, compliantly guarding her tone. "What is that?" "Divo--Pan," said Annunziata, dividing the word in two, and always with an air of excessive caution. But Maria Dolores helplessly shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand. What is Divo--Pan?" "Don't you know what a _divo_ is?" asked Annunziata, her clear grey eyes surprised. "Oh, a _divo?_" said Maria Dolores, getting a glimmer of light. "Ah, yes, a divo is a saint, I think? "Not exactly," Annunziata discriminated, "but something like one. The saints, you see, are always very good, and _divi_ are sometimes bad. But they are powerful, like saints. They can do anything they wish. Divo Pan is the divo who makes all the music that you hear out of doors,--the music of the wind and the water and the bird-songs. But you must be careful never to praise his music aloud, lest Divo Apollone should hear you. He is the divo that makes all the music you hear on instruments--on harps and violins and pianos. He is very jealous of Divo Pan, and if he hears you praising him, will do something to you. You know what he did to King Mida, don't you?" "What did he do?" asked Maria Dolores. Annunziata stole another wary glance about. "Once upon a time," she recounted, always in her lowest voice, "many years ago, hundreds of years ago, the King of this country was named Mida. And he loved very much the music of Divo Pan. He loved to sit by the river here, and to listen to the music of the water, and of the leaves, and of the birds. I love to do it too, and I think he was quite right. But one day, in his house, there came a musician with a harp, and began to play to him. And the King listened for a while, and then he told the musician to stop. 'Your music is very good,' he said, 'but now I am going into the fields and by the river, where I can hear a music I like better.' But the musician with the harp was really Divo Apollone himself; disguised. And this made him very angry and jealous. And to punish King Mida he changed his ears to long hairy ears, like an ass's. So, if you love the music of Divo Pan, you must be very careful not to let Divo Apollone hear you praise it, or he will do something to you." And to drive home this application of her theme, she held up a warning finger. Maria Dolores had listened, smiling. Now she gave a gay little laugh, and then for a moment mused. "That is a very curious bit of history," she said, in the end. "How ever did it come to your knowledge?"