“I love all that is of Nature,” cried Caliphronas, throwing himself on the smooth sward; “Nature is my mother—my true mother. Yes, I am a man born of woman, but such maternity does not appeal to me. Nature is at once my mother, my nurse, my goddess.” “You were born in Ithaca,” said Maurice quietly. “Was I born at all?” replied Caliphronas, throwing himself back with a joyous laugh and letting the sun blaze on his uncovered head. “I do not know! I cannot tell. Perchance some nymph bore me to one of the old gods, who Heine says yet walk the earth in other forms.” “What do you know of Heine?” asked the Rector in some surprise. “Nothing!—absolutely nothing. I never heard his name till the other day, when some one told me a story of the Gods in Exile, and said one Heine had written it.” “Are you fond of reading?” “I never read. I care not for books—all my knowledge comes from the mouth of my fellow-men and from Nature. Such culture is enough for me.” “You will get a sunstroke if you don’t cover your head,” said Maurice, somewhat tired of this pseudo-classicism. “No! I am a friend of Apollo’s. He will hurl no darts at me, and your pale sun in England is but a shadow of the glorious Helios of our Greek skies.” And, lying on his back, he began to sing a strange, wandering melody, of which the words (roughly translated) were as follows:— “The sun is my father: He kissed my mother the sea, And of their wooing the fruit am I.” Both the Englishmen were strangely fascinated by this stranger. He conducted himself in quite an unconventional fashion, and seemed to follow the last thought that suggested itself to his capricious brain. “Come!” he cried, springing to his feet with a bound like a deer. “Come, Mr. Maurice—are you a runner? I will race you round this garden.” “Really, Count,” said the Rector, somewhat startled. “Eh! Am I wrong, sir?” replied Caliphronas apologetically. “I ask your pardon! I do not know your English ways; you must teach me. I act as I feel. Is it wrong to do so?” “Well, we English like to see a little more self-restraint,” said Maurice, looking at the graceful figure of the young man. “By the way, are you going to stay here long?” The smile faded from the bright face of the Count, and he turned half away with an abrupt movement. “Who can tell?” he said lightly. “I am a bird of passage. I alight here and there, but fly when I am weary of the bough. You wonder at my coming down here, do you not, Mr. Maurice?” Thus addressed directly, Roylands was rather taken aback, and reddened perceptibly through the tan of his skin. “Well, for a gay young man like you, Count, I thought London would have pleased you better.” Caliphronas burst out laughing, and, putting his hands behind his head, leant back against the trunk of the elm.