sight of a jury of fierce metal lions and amber goats and smiling gar-goyles, he listened. And he heard it. It was very far away at first, very tentative, but it came clearer as he listened.

Softly, her arm back over her head, Maria’s finger-tips began to tap a little dance on the gleaming harp strings, on the shim¬mering brass pipes of the ancient bed. The music was — yes, of course: Santa Lucia! His lips moved to it in a warm whisper. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!
It was very beautiful.

1954

The end