And here, for want of _us_, you turn to the hares!
Sancie, you and I must get season tickets to Sarum, or he'll forget his
tongue."
Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do with this brisk
interchange. She walked between the contestants like a child out with her
betters. Senhouse led them down the scarped side of a hill into his own
valley; rounding a bluff, they suddenly came upon his terraces and
creeper-covered hut. The place was a blaze of field flowers; each terrace
a thick carpet of colour. In front of them the valley wound softly to the
south, and melted into the folds of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded
slope, in glades between the trees, goats were at pasture.
"Goats! Robinson Crusoe!" Chevenix pointed them out. "_Dic mihi, Damoeta,
cuium pecus? an Meliboei?_ Are they yours, Senhouse?"
"I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how to do it at Udine ages ago.
You shall have some."
Sanchia saw them. The sun gleamed upon fawn and white, and made black
shine like jet. Deep in the thickets they heard the bell of one, cropping
musically.
Senhouse led them to his verandah, which was shadowed from the heat, made
them sit on mats, and served them with milk and bread in wooden bowls and
trenchers.
Pages:
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403