Higher up patches of snow lay here and there on the shady side of the path. The shrubs and plants became stunted and nipped, with the exception of the flowering giant spurge that stood up from the stony ground vigorous and brilliantly decorative. We passed a cluster of dwellings, built of rock and founded on rock, grey and weather-worn, quite Alpine in character, where the necessities of life are wrung from nature in a close hand-to-hand fight. For a long time our path was rocky and uneven and lay between thorny undergrowth. Then it led down at a gentle gradient and drew nearer to the bed of the Fosso. Within a few minutes’ walk the character of the surroundings entirely changed. From a stony wilderness we had passed into an enchanted grove. The slopes lost their steepness, and the ground lost its bareness. We walked under high chestnuts along a moss-grown path that was soft to the tread, and then over a carpet of verdure bright with spring flowers, which recalled the emerald meadow dotted with shining flowers over which angels lead mortals to heaven in the painting of Fra Angelico. It was late in the afternoon, and the slanting sun-rays made golden lights on the trunks of the trees and set aglow the patches of primroses. The call of the cuckoo sounded at intervals, and there was the distant warbling of many woodland birds. One wished for the path to lengthen out indefinitely; all too soon the massive settlement of Camaldoli, set against a forest of pines, closed in the head of the valley. There is a graceful legend concerning a monk (I forget his name) who was one day tempted to stray from the path of life; he was sore perplexed in his mind by the words of the Psalmist, “A thousand years in God’s sight are but as yesterday.” How could time, that uniform flow “unaffected by the speed or the motion of material things,” be robbed of the conception of its length? How could time ever cease to exist to one who was endowed with consciousness?