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He was dressed in black. There was something alert and
military in that upright carriage, those keen eyes, bushy black brows
and snowy mustache. He uttered a few pleasant remarks on making Mr.
Heard's acquaintance, but soon relapsed into silence. Absorbed in the
spectacle, he sat motionless, his chin resting in the hollow of his
right hand.
"A fine type," Keith whispered into the bishop's ear. "You will like
him. I call him the Salt of the South. If you are interested in the old
Greek life of these regions--well, he gives you an idea of those people.
He is the epitome of the Ionian spirit. I'll take you up to see him one
of these days."
The performance consisted of a series of twelve scenes without words,
representing the twelve chief episodes in the life of the Patron Saint,
as portrayed in a certain marble frieze in the church. The actors were
a handful of the more attractive and intelligent children of the place.
They had been trained under the watchful eye of a priest who confessed
to some notions of stage-craft and delighted in juvenile theatricals.


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