The Little
White Cows! Chimaeras, engendered in hyperborean mists.
And still Count Caloveglia said nothing. He gazed at the sun, whose orb
now rolled upon the rim of the horizon. Slowly it sank, fusing the
water into a golden pool. A hush fell upon nature. Colours fled from
earth into the sky. They scattered among the clouds. The enchantment
began, overhead.
At last the old man remarked:
"I suppose that is why I am no colourist. That is why I worship the
inexorable rigour of form. We of the South, Mr. Heard, are drenched in
volatile beauty. . . . And yet one never wearies of these things! It is
what you call a glamour, an interlude of witchcraft. Nature is
a-tremble with the miraculous. She beckons us to explore her strange
places. She says: Tread here, my friend--and here; tread where you have
never trodden before! The sage surrenders his intelligence, and grows
young again. He recaptures the spirit of his boyish dreams. He peers
into worlds unknown. See! Adventure and discovery are lurking on every
side.
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