glory, hung quivering in the mist of the Mediterranean; and Lisa entered for a
moment into a perfect peace of spirit. She became one with Nature, instead of
a being eternally at war with it.
But Cyril turned his face again to the mountain; she knew that he wanted
to perform the evening adoration from the terrace of the house itself.
At last they came out from their narrow gangway to the by-street behind
the church. It was an old and neglected thoroughfare, far from the main
automobile road that runs along the crest. It was a place that the centuries had
forgotten. Lisa realized that it was a haven of calm — and in a sense she
resented the fact. Her highly-coloured nature demanded constant stimulus.
She was an emotion-fiend, if one may construct the term by analogy with
another branch of pathology.
The lovers turned to the left through the village; in a few minutes the road
opened, and they saw the villa before them. It stood on a spur of rock,
separated from the main hill by a sharply-cut chasm. This was spanned by an
old stone bridge, a flying arch set steeply from the road to the house. It
almost gave the effect of a frozen cascade issuing from the great doorway.
Cyril led Lisa across the bridge. This house was not served like that they
had left behind them in Paris. Visitors were not expected or desired at any
time, and the inmates rarely left the grounds, except on duty. [136]
It was therefore some time before an answer to the summons reached them.
Cyril's hand, dragging down an iron rope, had set swinging a great bell, deep
and solemn, like a tocsin, in the turret which overlooked the chasm. Not until
its last echo was dumb did a small Judas in the door slide back. Cyril held up
his left hand, and showed his seal-ring. Immediately the door swung open; a
man of fifty odd years of age, dressed in black, with a great sword, like his
brother guard at the Profess-House in Paris, stood bowing before them.
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. I enter the house."
With these words Cyril Grey assumed possession. "Lead me to Sister
Clara." The man turned and went before them down a long corridor which
opened upon a stone terrace, flagged with porphyry. A circular fountain in
the middle had, for its centre a copy of the Venus Callipyge in black marble.
The parapet was decorated with statues of satyrs, fauns, and nymphs.
The woman who came to meet them was assuredly kin to that ancient
company. She was about forty years of age, robust and hardy, burnt dark with
years of outdoor life, her face slightly pitted with smallpox, her eyes black,
stern, and true. Her whole aspect and demeanour expressed devoting capacity