Wandering a little from the faintly traced path, grown invisible in the vagueness of the diffused moon-radiance, they called for help to a young shepherd going lightly homeward, with his cloak draped in long classic folds from one shoulder, and singing under his breath. A shepherd who may have been merely a commonplace, handsome young Sicilian by day, but who in this magic shining dusk was the shepherd of all pastoral verse, strayed for a moment from Arcady. Following his swift light feet they were set at last into the broad road among the herds and the asses and the homing labourers—Demeter’s well-beloved children. “E’en now the distant farms send up their smoke, And shadows lengthen from the lofty hills. —Now the gloaming star Bids fold the flock and duly tell their tale, And moves unwelcome up the wistful sky. . . . . . . Go home, my full-fed goats, Cometh the Evening Star, my goats, go home.” 229 CHAPTER VI   The Golden Shell “Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blüh’n?” When Ulysses Grant had ended the Civil War in America and was made President, he turned from uttering his solemn oath of office before the cheering multitudes and said under his breath to his wife who stood beside him, in that tone of half-resentful, half-weary patience the American husband usually adopts in speaking to his mate, “Well, now, Julia, I hope you’re satisfied!” There was the same exasperated patience in Jane’s voice as she climbed into the railway carriage for Palermo and, throwing herself back upon the cushions, exclaimed: “Well, now, Peripatetica, I hope you’ve had enough of the Greeks! For my part I go on to the next course; something a little more modern. Tombs and goddesses and columns and myths cloy as a steady diet for months, and even the ridiculous pompous old Eighteenth 230Century would seem rather home-like and comfy as a change. I could find it in my heart to relish a bit of the odious decadence of l’art nouveau simply by way of contrast.”