It was not a high wall, that is, not very high. Many a time in the
country Daphne had climbed more formidable ones, and there was no
reason why she should not try this. No one was in sight except a
shepherd, watching a great flock of sheep. There was a forgotten rose
garden over in that field; had Caesar planted it, or Tiberius,
centuries ago? Certainly no one had tended it for a thousand years or
two, and the late pink roses grew unchecked. Daphne slowly worked her
way to the top of the wall; this close masonry made the proceeding more
difficult than it usually was at home. She stood for a moment on the
summit, glorying in the widened view, then sprang, with the lightness
of a kitten, to the other side. There was a skurry of frightened
sheep, and then a silence.
She knew that she was sitting on the grass, and that her left wrist
pained. Some one was coming toward her.
"Are you hurt?" asked Apollo anxiously.
"Not at all," she answered, continuing to sit on the grass.
"If you were hurt, where would it be?"
"In my wrist," said the girl, with a little groan.
The questioner kneeled beside her, and Daphne gave a start of surprise
that was touched with fear.
"It isn't you?" she stammered. "You aren't the shepherd?"
A sheepskin coat disguised him. The rough hat was of soft drooping
felt, like that of any shepherd watching on the hills, and in his hand
he held a crook. An anxious mother-sheep was sniffing eagerly at his
pockets, remembering gifts of salt.
"Apollo was a shepherd," said Daphne slowly, with wonder in her face.
"He kept the flocks of King Admetus."
"You seem to be well read in the classical dictionary," remarked the
stranger, with twinkling eyes. "You have them in America then?"
He was examining her wrist with practiced fingers, touching it firmly
here and there.
"We have everything in America," said the girl, eyeing him dubiously.
"But no gods except money, I have heard."
"Yes, gods, and impostors too," she answered significantly.
"So I have heard," said Apollo, with composure.
The maddening thing was that she could not look away from him--some
radiance of life in his face compelled her eyes. He had thrown his hat
upon the grass, and the girl could see strength and sweetness and
repose in every line of forehead, lip, and chin. There was pride there,
too, and with it a slight leaning forward of the head.
"I presume that comes from listening to beseeching prayers," she was
thinking to herself.
"Ow!" she remarked suddenly.
"That is the place, is it?"
He drew from one of the pockets of the grotesque coat a piece of
sheepskin, which he proceeded to cut into two strips with his knife.
"It seems to be a very slight sprain," remarked Apollo. "I must
bandage it. Have you any pins about you?"
"Can the gods lack pins?" asked the girl, smiling. She searched, and
found two in her belt, and handed them to him.
"The gods do not explain themselves," he answered, binding the
sheepskin tightly about her wrist.
"So I observe," she remarked dryly.
"Is that right?" he asked. "Now, when you reach home, you must remove
the bandage and hold your hand and wrist first in very hot water, then
in cold. Is there some one who can put the bandage back as I have it?
See, it simply goes about the wrist, and is rather tight. You must
pardon my taking possession of the case, but no one else was near.
Apollo has always been something of a physician, you know."
"You apparently used the same classical dictionary that I did,"
retorted Daphne. "I remember the statement there."
Then she became uncomfortable, and wished her words unsaid, for awe had
come upon her. After all, nothing could be more unreal than she was to
herself in these days of wonder. Her mind was full of dreams as they
sat and watched white clouds drifting over the deep blue of the sky.
Near them the sheep were cropping grass, and all the rest was silence.
"You look anxious," said the physician. "Is it the wrist?"
"No," answered the girl, facing him bravely, under the momentary
inspiration of a wave of common sense, "I am wondering why you make
this ridiculous assumption about yourself. Tell me who you really are."
If he had defended himself she would have argued, but he was silent and
she half believed.
"But you look like a mortal," she protested, answering her own
thoughts. "And you wear conventional clothing. I don't mean this
sheepskin, but the other day."
"It is a realistic age," he answered, smiling. "People no longer
believe what they do not see. We are forced to adopt modern methods
and modern costume to show that we exist."
"You do not look like the statue of Apollo," ventured Daphne.
"Did people ever dare tell the truth about the gods? Never! They made
up a notion of what a divine nose should be and bestowed it upon all
the gods impartially. So with the forehead, so with the hair. I
assure you, Miss Willis, we are much more individual than Greek art
would lead you to expect."
"Do you mind just telling me why you are keeping sheep now?"
"I will, if you will promise not to consider a question of mine
impertinent."
"What is the question?"
"I only wished to know why an American young lady should bear a Greek
name? It is a beautiful name, and one that is a favorite of mine as
you may know."
"I didn't know," said Daphne. "It was given me by my father. He was
born in America, but he had a Greek soul. He has always longed to live
in Greece, but he has to go on preaching, preaching, for he is a
rector, you know, in a little church in New York, that isn't very rich,
though it is very old. All his life he has been hungry for the beauty
and the greatness of the world over here."
"That accounts for your expression," observed Apollo.
"What expression?"
"That isn't the question I promised to answer. If you will take a few
steps out of your way, I can satisfy you in regard to the first one you
asked."
He rose, and the white shepherd dog sprang ahead, barking joyously. The
sheep looked up and nibbled in anxious haste, fearing that any other
bit of pasture might be less juicy than this. Daphne followed the
shepherd god to a little clump of oak trees, where she saw a small,
rough gray tent, perhaps four feet in height. Under it, on brown
blankets, lay a bearded man, whose eyes lighted at Apollo's approach.
A blue bowl with a silver spoon in it stood on the ground near his
head, and a small heap of charred sticks with an overhanging kettle
showed that cooking had been done there.
"The shepherd has a touch of fever," explained the guide. "Meanwhile,
somebody must take care of the sheep. I am glad to get back my two
occupations as shepherd and physician at the same time."
The dog and his master accompanied her part way down the hill, and the
girl was silent, for her mind was busy, revolving many thoughts. At
the top of the last height above the villa she stopped and looked at
her companion. The sun was setting, and a golden haze filled the air.
It ringed with light the figure before her, standing there, the face,
with its beauty of color, and its almost insolent joyousness, rising
above the rough sheepskin coat.
"Who are you?" she gasped, terrified. "Who are you, really?" The
confused splendor dazzled her eyes, and she turned and ran swiftly down
the hill.