One autumn I was in Sicily, making a number of mountain excursions,
visiting remote villages hidden in rocky clefts, or perched boldly
on spurs in the eye of the sun, sleeping occasionally at night in
humble rooms to which the gobbling turkey and the audacious pig were
no strangers. Among my many memories of those free and happy days one
stands out—the memory of a tress of splendid black hair.
On an afternoon, near sunset, I rode up to the edge of a hamlet of
huddled dwellings, where stood a large, old church, Arabic-Norman in
style, and here I dismounted to rest and fill my eyes and heart with
the wonder and the glory of Nature.
As I gazed I remember thinking: “How small humanity is!”
A fat old priest shuffled up to recall me from my reveries. He cleared
his throat, saluted me, and begged me to come and see his church.
We went into the sacristy, and presently stood before an immense and
mouldy cupboard. After much struggling with a rusty key the doors were
opened, and I was confronted by a large wooden statue of the Madonna
and Child, covered with fading but still hideous colours, and flecked
with the dust of ages.
I scarcely noticed the statue, however, for my eyes had fallen upon
something else—a great plait of glorious black hair, thick, long,
twisted with reverent care, strong strand through strand, tied at the
top and bottom by bows of rose-red satin. It hung to the wrist of the
Madonna, and was touched by the little outstretched foot of the infant
Jesus.