"Once upon a time, _signora_, they used to grow fine grapes there," he said, "and the wine was always sent to Rome for the special use of the Pope and his cardinals. That made the people proud, and the devil took possession of them, which greatly grieved a pious hermit who dwelt in a cell in the little Val Malgina, by the side of a torrent that flows into the Adda. So one day he asked the good Lord to permit the devil to visit him; but when Satan appeared the saint laughed at him. 'You!' he cried. 'Who sent for you? You are not the Prince of the Infernal Regions?'--'Am I not?' said the stranger, with a truly fiendish grin. 'Just try my powers, and see what will happen!'--'Very well,' said the saint, 'produce me twenty barrels of better wine than can be grown in Sondrio.' So old Barbariccia stamped his hoof, and lo! there were the twenty barrels, while the mere scent of them nearly made the saint break a vow that he would never again taste fermented wine. But he held fast, and said, 'Now, drink the lot.'--'Oh, nonsense!' roared the devil. 'Pooh!' said the hermit, 'you're not much of a devil if you can't do in a moment what the College of Cardinals can do in a week.' That annoyed Satan, and he put away barrel after barrel, until the saint began to feel very uneasy. But the last barrel finished him, and down he went like a log, whereupon the holy man put him into one of his own tubs and sent him to Rome to be dealt with properly. There was a tremendous row, it is said, when the cask was opened. In the confusion, Satan escaped; but in revenge for the trick that had been played on him, he put a blight on the vines of the Adda, and from that day to this never a liter of decent wine came out of Sondrio." "I guess if that occurred anywhere in Italy nowadays, they'd lynch the hermit," said a voice in English outside. Helen screamed, and the two Italians were startled. No one was expected at the hut at that hour. Its earliest visitors should come from the inner range, after a long tramp from Italy or Pontresina. "Sorry if I scared you," said Spencer, his tall figure suddenly darkening the doorway; "but I didn't like to interrupt the story." Helen sprang to her feet. Her cheeks, blanched for a few seconds, became rosy red. "You!" she cried. "How dare you follow me here?" In the rapidly growing light she caught a transitory gleam in the American's eyes, though his face was as impassive as usual. And the worst of it was that it suggested humor, not resentment. Even in the tumult of wounded pride that took her heart by storm, she realized that her fiery vehemence had gone perilously near to a literal translation of the saintly scoff at old Barbariccia. And, now if ever, she must be dignified. Anger yielded to disdain. In an instant she grew cold and self collected. "I regret that in my surprise I spoke unguardedly," she said. "Of course, this hut is open to everyone----"