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 A Walk through the Southern Sky
Third Edition
A guide to stars and constellations and their legends

A Walk through the Southern Sky is a beautifully illustrated guide to the stars and
constellations of the southern hemisphere. By following the simplified and easy-
to-use star maps, readers will be able to identify constellations with no equipment
but normal sight and a clear night sky. This book provides clear instructions on
how to determine star sizes and the distances between stars, allowing readers to
move easily between constellations. The budding astronomer is introduced to
the mystery and wonder of the southern sky as the myths and legends of its stars
and constellations are wondrously retold.
The third edition of this magical book features a new moon map, an updated
list of planet positions, additional illustrations and more realistic star maps. It is
an invaluable and beautiful guide for beginner stargazers, both young and old.

MILTON HEIFETZ is an amateur astronomer, professor of neurosurgery and

inventor of ‘The Precession of the Equinoxes’ planisphere, now in the Harvard
University Museum of Historical Scientific Instruments. It is used to determine
positions of the stars in ancient history and years into the future.

WIL TIRION is a freelance uranographer and graphic designer. He is co-author

of The Monthly Sky Guide, now in its eighth edition (Cambridge University Press,
2009). He is the author of The Cambridge Star Atlas, now in its fourth edition
(Cambridge University Press, 2011) and co-author of The Cambridge Double Star
Atlas (Cambridge University Press, 2009) and The Cambridge Atlas of Herschel
Objects (Cambridge University Press, 2011).

Milton Heifetz and Wil Tirion also created A Walk through the Heavens, a guide to
stars and constellations as visible from northern latitudes, now in its third edition
(Cambridge University Press, 2004)
 This book is dedicated to our grandchildren:
Elena, Sari, Ariel, Jenny, Litan, Ilan, David, Ariana, Ori, Kylian,
and those yet to come
 A Walk through the Southern Sky
A guide to stars and constellations and their legends

Third edition

Milton D. Heifetz & Wil Tirion

cambridge university press
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town,
Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Mexico City
Cambridge University Press
477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia

Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107698987

© Milton Heifetz & Wil Tirion 2012

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception

and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published 2000

Second edition 2007
Reprinted 2010
Third edition 2012

Cover and text design by Adrian Saunders

Typeset by Newgen Publishing and Data Services
Printed in China by C & C Offset Printing Co. Ltd.

A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library

National Library of Australia Cataloguing in Publication data

Heifetz, Milton D., 1921–
A walk through the southern sky : a guide to stars,
constellations and their legends /
Milton Heifetz, Wil Tirion.
3rd ed.
9781107698987 (pbk.)
Southern sky (Astronomy) – Observers’ manuals.
Astronomy – Southern Hemisphere – Observers’ manuals.
Constellations – Observers’ manuals.
Stars – Mythology – Southern Hemisphere.
Tirion, Wil.
523.80223

ISBN 978-1-107-69898-7 Paperback

Reproduction and communication for educational purposes

The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of
one chapter or 10% of the pages of this work, whichever is the greater,
to be reproduced and/or communicated by any educational institution
for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution
(or the body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to
Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

For details of the CAL licence for educational institutions contact:

Copyright Agency Limited

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Telephone: (02) 9394 7600
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Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or

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this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is,
or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
C ontents

Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Part 1 Measuring Distances in the Sky 3

Map of the Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Distances to the stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Three-dimensional awareness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
The brightness of stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
The Milky Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Life in the heavens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Instructions for use of the atlas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Four seasonal star maps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Part 2 A Walk Through the Heavens 17

A walk through the southern sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
The Southern Cross (Crux) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Pathways from Crux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
To locate Musca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
To locate Corvus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
To locate Carina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
To locate Achernar of Eridanus . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
The Centaurus–Crux–Carina–Vela relationship
The True and False Southern Crosses . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
To locate Vela and the False Southern Cross . . . . . . . 24
The Acrux–Canopus–Achernar triangle . . . . . . . . . . . 26
The Centaurus–Lupus–Ara–Libra–Scorpius relationship . . . 28
Pathways from Centaurus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
To Lupus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
To locate Libra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
To Ara . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
To Circinus and Triangulum Australe . . . . . . . . . . 28
The Sagittarius–Centaurus–Hydrus–Pavo relationship . . . . 30
To locate Peacock in Pavo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
The Achernar–Fomalhaut–Peacock triangle . . . . . . . . . 32

â•… v
 To locate Grus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Pathways from Grus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
To locate Tucana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
To locate Indus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
To locate Capricornus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
The Diphda–Fomalhaut–Achernar–Peacock triangles . . . . . 34
To locate Ankaa in the constellation of Phoenix . . . . . . 34
The Grus–Sagittarius–Scorpius–Lupus relationship . . . . . 36
To locate Microscopium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
To locate Telescopium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
To locate Norma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
The Canis Major–Puppis–Carina (Canopus)
relationship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
To locate Puppis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
The River Eridanus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Guides to the South Celestial Pole (SCP) . . . . . . . . . . 42
The Magellanic Clouds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Starting from Orion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Pathways from Orion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To locate Sirius in Canis Major . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To locate Procyon in Canis Minor . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To locate Taurus and its star clusters the Hyades
and the Pleiades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To locate Achernar and Canopus . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To locate Gemini . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
To locate Auriga . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
To locate Lepus, Columba and Cetus . . . . . . . . . . . 50
To locate Cetus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Orion’s encirclement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
To locate Arcturus in Bootes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
To locate Cor Caroli in Canes Venatici . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
To locate Corona Borealis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
To locate Spica in Virgo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
To locate Corvus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
To locate Hydra, the water snake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
To locate Leo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
To locate Cancer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
To locate Vega in Lyra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

v i â•… C ontents
 To locate the Northern Cross (Cygnus) . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
To locate Pegasus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
To locate Altair in Aquila . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
To locate Hamal in Aries, Diphda in Cetus and
Fomalhaut in Piscis Austrinus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
To locate Aries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
To locate Fomalhaut in Piscis Austrinus . . . . . . . . . 66
To locate Diphda in Cetus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
To locate Perseus and Andromeda . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
To locate Hercules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
To locate Ophiuchus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
To locate Serpens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
To locate Antares in Scorpius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
To locate Sagittarius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
General summary of pathways . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Part 3 Legends of the Constellations 79

Legend of Andromeda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Legend of Aquarius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Legend of Aquila . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Legends of Ara . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Legend of Argo Navis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Legends of Aries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Legend of Auriga . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Legend of Bootes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Legends of Canis Major and Minor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Legends of Canopus in Carina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Legend of Cassiopeia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Legends of Centaurus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Legend of Cetus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Legend of Columba (Noah’s dove) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Legend of Coma Berenices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Legend of Corona Australis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Legend of Corona Borealis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Legend of Corvus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Legend of the Crater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Legend of Crux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Legend of Cygnus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

C ontentsâ•… vii
 Legend of Delphinus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Legend of Draco the dragon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Legend of Eridanus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Legends of Gemini . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Legend of Grus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Legend of Hercules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Legend of Hydra the water snake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
Legend of Leo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
Legend of Libra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Legends of Lyra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Legends of Ophiuchus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Legends of Orion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Legend of Pegasus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Legend of Perseus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Legend of the Phoenix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Legends of the Pleiades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Legend of Sagitta the arrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Legend of Sagittarius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Legend of Scorpius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Legend of Taurus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Legend of Ursa Major . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Legend of Virgo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Legends of the Milky Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

Part 4 There’s more to see! 105

Circumpolar constellations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Test of vision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Colour test . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Star brightness test . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Binocular sights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Location of planets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
The ecliptic and the Zodiac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Planet locations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Navigational stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Minor constellations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Constellations index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116

v i i i â•… C ontents
Ack nowledgements

I wish to acknowledge the courtesy of Larry Schindler and Ron

Dantowitz for use of the Hayden Planetarium of Boston. I also wish to
express my gratitude to Robert Kimberk and Freeman Deutsch of the
Harvard University Center of Astrophysics for their generous computer
assistance and to Robert S. Strobie, Brian Warner and John Menzie of
the South African Astronomical Observatory in Sutherland for their
courtesy during my study of the Southern Constellations. I also wish to
acknowledge the excellent advice I received from Dan Ben-Amos, Yosef
Dan, Jarita Holbrook, Jan Knappert, Edwin Krupp, Harold Scheub,
Gregory Schremp, and Gary Urton regarding sources for the legends of
Africa, South America and the Pacific Islands, and especially Suzanne
Blair, who allowed me complete access to her voluminous research on
the cosmological folklore of Africa.

Any errors are strictly my own and the artistic license I may have taken
in relation to the legends is also my own responsibility.

â•… ix
I n t roduc t ion

This book is written for those who look at the stars with wonderment
and would like to feel more at home with them; to go for a friendly walk
with them.
In order to walk through the heavens and to know where you are,
you must recognise what your eye sees. To know the names of stars and
constellations is to form a friendship with our heavenly neighbours.
As we walk among the constellations, you will feel the immensity
and quiet peace of the night sky. Do not ignore the legends about the
constellations in Part 3 of the book. These legends will lend greater
feeling to your vision of the world above. Friendship with the stars will
deepen as we sense the thoughts and dreams of people who imagined
people and animals living among the constellations.
Our walk will take us to the brightest stars in the sky. When we
become familiar with them they will lead us to the dim stars.
It is not enough simply to find a constellation. Try to see relation-
ships between constellations. This is best done if you know different
pathways to the constellations.
From the time of early humans, people have looked at the stars to
help them navigate across seas and deserts, know when to plant and
to harvest, establish their legends, mark the change of seasons and
even align their temples of worship. To aid in recognising specific
stars, they placed the brighter ones into star group patterns we now
call constellations. Constellations were recorded over 5000 years
ago and lists of such patterns were written 2400 years ago by the
Greek astronomer Eudoxus, who studied under Plato. Ptolemy, who
lived 2100 years ago, compiled a list of 48 constellations which has
remained relatively standard to this day. Later, Johann Bayer (1572–
1625), Johannes Hevelius (1611–87) and Nicolas de Lacaille (1713–62)
added more constellations to the list. Professional astronomers now
officially recognise 88 constellations which they regard simply as
areas of the sky, not as star ‘pictures’ or patterns. These patterns
have never been made ‘official’, so you should feel free to make any
constellation design you wish.

â•… 1
 Before we begin our walk through the heavens, we should under-
stand two concepts: how to measure distances in the sky, and the
brightness of the stars. Then, follow the instructions on how to use the
atlas to best advantage.
In Part 2, ‘A walk through the heavens’, the design or picture of a
group of stars to form a constellation image will usually, but not always,
contain stars that are bright enough to be seen easily. Most of the con-
stellation patterns are well recognised images, but some are new.
For convenience, each star in each constellation will be numbered
and some will be named so that we can more easily identify specific
stars to help us walk around the sky. We will follow several paths
to a constellation. By doing this you will have a better sense of star
relationships.
Since I have been disturbed by the violence that is part of the
commonly used legends associated with the constellations, I have
taken the liberty of modifying and abridging them. Legends have been
and will continue to be modified with each generation.
This book applies to people living in the Southern Hemisphere, but
it is also of value to those living slightly north as well as south of the
equator.
Relax and enjoy yourself as you travel across the sky.

2 â•… A Wa l k t h r o u g h t h e S o u t h e r n S k y
 Part 1
Measuring Distances in the Sky
 How do we measure the size of Scorpius or the distance between
two stars? We cannot measure these distances in inches or
millimetres, which are linear measurements (measurements along
a line). Instead, we must use a measuring system with angles to
determine how far apart one star or constellation may be from
another.
To do this in a practical way without fancy instruments we use
our eye as the corner of the angle and part of our hand to hide the
sky between the stars or constellations of interest. The further apart
the stars are, the more of our hand we need to use to cover the space
between them. Look at Figure 1.

2 degrees

Figure 1â•… With your arm outstretched, your hand will help you determine
angular distances. Extend your arm out in front of you and hold your thumb
upright. It is now hiding part of what is in front of your vision. The amount of
view that is hidden behind your thumb will depend upon how long your arm
is and how thick your thumb may be. The shorter the arm, or the thicker the
thumb, the more of your view will be hidden.

â•…4 â•… A W a l k t h r o u g h t h e S o u t h e r n S k y
 20° 15° 10°

5° 2° 1°

Observer

Figure 2â•… Figure 3â•… Although the Moon is so much larger

than the building across the street, it can actually
be hidden by a narrow object like a finger. The
diameter of the Moon, when measured this way, is
seen to be only about half a degree wide. The farther
So our hand becomes an excellent device
away an object is, the smaller the angle needed to
for measuring distances in degrees in the sky. hide it from sight. The Moon looks much bigger
Different parts of your hand can be used to than a star because it is so much closer to us.
measure different angles. Look at Figure 2.
The tip of your small finger will cover
approximately 1 degree of sky. In a room in
your house, look at the door knob or light
switch across the room. Your finger can cover
it. Now look at a building across the street.
The same finger will cover a large part of the
building. Now look at the Moon. The same fin-
ger can cover the Moon. How can this be since
one is so much larger than the other? Look at
Figure 3.

M e as u r i n g d is t a n c e s i n t h e s k y â•…â•… 5
M a p of t he M o o n

NORTH
Goldschmidt Meton
Philolaus
Barrow
Carpenter Arnold
Pythagoras
W. Bond
J. Herschel
60°
MARE FRIGORIS
Harpalus Plato
Endymion
SINUS
RORIS Bianchini is
Vall s Aristoteles Hercules
ra Montes M
on Alpe
Sharp Ju te LACUS
es Recti
Eudoxus MORTIS Bürg Atlas

t
SINUS

s
on

Al
M
IRIDUM

pe
Mairan

s
Mons Le Verrier
Helicon Cassini
Rümker LACUS
Luna 17
Montes SOMNIORUM
Caucasus
MARE IMBRIUM Aristillus
Posidonius

30°
Delisle Autolycus MARE
Archimedes Luna 2 SERENITATIS Chacornac
PALUS Linné Luna 21
Vallis Timocharis PUTREDINIS Apollo 15 Le Monnier
Schröteri Prinz
Lambert
Struve Aristarchus Euler us

M
in

on
Herodotus Bessel
nn

te
Seleucus Cocon
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sA Apollo 17

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us
M Vetruvius
Krafft Montes Ca
rpatus
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Gay-Lussac
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AESTUUM VAPORUM
Copernicus Stadius MARE
Kepler Hyginus TRANQUILLITATIS
Luna 9
Reiner
Arago
Encke 47
Cavalerius Triesnecker
Agrippa Ranger 8
OCEANUS Reinhold
SINUS Ritter
Hevelius Godin
PROCELLARUM Lansberg Gambart MEDII Sabine
Surveyor 5
WEST 60° 30° Mösting 0° Rhaeticus
Apollo 11
30°
Surveyor 3 Surveyor 6
Surveyor 9 Apollo 12 Flammarion Delambre
Apollo 14
Montes Herschel Hypatia Torricelli
Fra Mauro Hipparchus
Grimaldi Riphaeus
Parry
MARE Bonpland Ptolemaeus Albategnius Mädler
Hansteen Letronne
COGNITUM Apollo 16 Theophilus
Sirsalis
Davy
A Ranger 7 Guericke Ranger 9 Abulfeda Cyrillus
Billy Alphonsus
Argelander
MARE Alpetragius Almanon Tacitus Catharina
Gassendi Airy
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NUBIUM Arzachel
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Rup

Bullialdus Abenezra
Mersenius Thebit
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MARE Birt La Caille Playfair Azophi

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HUMORUM
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Byrgius Blanchinus Sacrobosco

Purbach
Campanus Apianus
Vieta Mercator Pitatus Regiomontanus Werner Pontanus Piccolomioni
Vitello
30°
PALUS Alicensis Zagut
EPIDEMIARUM Gauricus Walter
Cichus Rabbi Levi
Capuanus Wurzelbauer Nonius
Büsching
Orontius Buch Riccius
Heisius Surveyor 7
Stöfler
Wilhelm Maurolycus Fabricius
Mee Nasireddin
Schickard Tycho Saussure
Barocius
Licetus
Maginus
Phocylides Schiller Pitiscus
Longomontanus Cuvier Baco Vlac
Hommel

Clavius Jacobi
60°
Scheiner
Blancanus Curtius Manzinus

Moretus

SOUTH

Figure 4â•… Map of the Moon

6 â•… A Wa l k t h r o u g h t h e S o u t h e r n S k y
 NORTH
Goldschmidt Meton
Philolaus
Barrow
Carpenter Arnold
Pythagoras
W. Bond
J. Herschel
60°
MARE FRIGORIS
Harpalus Plato
SINUS Endymion
RORIS
Bianchini is
Vall Aristoteles
s
ra Montes M
on Alpe Mercurius
Ju te LACUS
es Recti
Sharp Eudoxus MORTIS Bürg Hercules Atlas
t

SINUS
s
on

Al
M

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s

Le Verrier Cepheus
Helicon Cassini
LACUS Franklin
Luna 17
Montes SOMNIORUM Gauss
Caucasus
MARE IMBRIUM Aristillus Geminus
Berosus
Posidonius
Hahn
Delisle Autolycus MARE Chacornac Burckhardt
30°
Archimedes Luna 2 SERENITATIS
PALUS Linné Luna 21 Cleomedus
Timocharis PUTREDINIS Apollo 15 Le Monnier
Lambert
Euler us
M

in
on

nn Bessel
te

Cocon Macrobius
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on MARE
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M
Montes Ca
rpatus Vetruvius CRISIUM
Manilius Menelaus Plinius
Mayer Eratosthenis PALUS
Gay-Lussac Picard
MARE SOMNI Condorcet
Luna 24
SINUS VAPORUM
Copernicus Stadius
AESTUUM MARE
Hyginus TRANQUILLITATIS Firmicus MARE
Arago UNDARUM
47
Triesnecker Taruntius Apollonius
Agrippa
Reinhold Ranger 8 Luna 20
SINUS Godin Ritter MARE
Surveyor 5 SPUMANS
Lansberg Gambart MEDII Sabine
Apollo 11 Luna 16
30° Mösting 0° Rhaeticus 30° 60° EAST
Surveyor 3 Surveyor 6 A Messier
Apollo 12 Flammarion Delambre
Montes
Apollo 14 MARE
Hypatia Torricelli
Riphaeus Fra Mauro Herschel Hipparchus FECUNDITATIS
Capella
Parry Isidorus Gutenberg
Langrenius
MARE Bonpland Ptolemaeus Albategnius
COGNITUM Apollo 16 Theophilus Goclenius
Mädler Kapteyn
Davy
Ranger 7 Guericke Ranger 9 Abulfeda Cyrillus
Alphonsus MARE
MARE Alpetragius Argelander NECTARIS Colombo
Almanon Tacitus Catharina Vendelinus
Airy
Agatharchides NUBIUM Arzachel
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es R

Birt La Caille Playfair Azophi

ecta

Blanchinus Sacrobosco Petavius

Purbach
Campanus Apianus
Mercator Pitatus Regiomontanus Werner Pontanus Piccolomioni Snellius
30°
PALUS Alicensis Zagut Reichenbach
EPIDEMIARUM Gauricus Walter Stevinus
Cichus Rabbi Levi
Capuanus Wurzelbauer Nonius
Furnerius
Büsching
Vallis

Orontius Buch Riccius Rheita

Heisius Surveyor 7 Metius
Stöfler
Rheita

Wilhelm Maurolycus Fabricius

Mee Nasireddin
Tycho Saussure
Barocius LE
Licetus A
Maginus R
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Cuvier Baco S
Longomontanus Vlac U
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E
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60°
Scheiner
Blancanus Curtius Manzinus

Moretus

SOUTH

M e as u r i n g d is t a n c e s i n t h e s k y â•… 7
 In 1966 the USSR successfully landed on Significant Luna missions
the moon. This remarkable achievement was Luna 2 12 September 1959 First man-made
repeated soon after by the United States. object to land on
Figure 4 is a diagram of the moon, showing its the Moon.
craters, mountains and ‘seas’, and shows the Luna 9 31 January 1966 First soft landing.
landing sites (small triangles) of some of the Luna 13 21 December 1966 Soft landing
missions to the Moon. Luna 16 12 September 1970 Returned with
There have been four major programs ded- soil sample
icated toward the potential use of the moon. Luna 17 10 November 1970 Lunar rover
a. The Surveyor program: a photographic Luna 20 9 February 1972 Returned with
survey of the Moon’s surface to identify soil sample
areas for future soft landings. Luna 21 8 January 1973 Lunar rover
b. The Ranger photographic program: a study Luna 24 9 August 1976 Lunar sample
of the effect of impacts upon the Moon’s
surface. Significant Apollo missions
c. and d. The Apollo (US) and Luna (USSR) Apollo 11 16 July 1969 First manned
programs: dedicated to landing on the Moon lunar landing€–
for future exploitation. Neil Armstrong
Apollo 12 19 November 1969 Lunar landing
Apollo 14 31 January 1971 Lunar landing
Apollo 15 26 July 1971 Lunar landing
Apollo 16 16 April 1972 Lunar landing
Apollo 17 7 December 1972 Lunar landing

8 â•… A Wa l k t h r o u g h t h e S o u t h e r n S k y
D i s ta n ce s t o t he s ta r s
We measure the distance between a star and
the Earth, not in miles or kilometres, but in
light years by using the speed of light. It is
important to remember that a light year is a
distance, not a measure of time. The distance
light travels in one year is a light year. Light
travels 299 000 kilometres per second (186 000
miles per second), which is 1 096 000 000 kilo-
metres per hour (680 760 000 miles per hour).
Therefore, a light year is a distance of almost
9.6 trillion kilometres, or 6 trillion miles.
It takes more than one second for light
from the Moon to reach the Earth and more
than 8 minutes for light from the Sun to reach Figure 5â•…
the Earth. Compare this with the 4.3 years
that it takes for the light from the nearest
star, Rigil of Centaurus, to reach the Earth. T he b rig h t ne s s of s ta r s
Deneb in the Northern Cross is over 1000 light Some stars appear much brighter than others.
years away. That means the light we now see This does not necessarily mean that the bright
left the star over 1000 years ago. It is therefore star is bigger or giving off more light than the
possible that the star may not even be there dimmer star. The apparent brightness (how
any more. bright it seems to us) depends upon three
things: (1) how big it is; (2) how far away it is
T hre e- d ime n s io n a l awa re ne s s from Earth; and (3) how much light it actually
The stars within each constellation appear as emanates per diameter of the star. The bright-
if painted on a flat surface. This is an illusion. est star to us is our Sun, but it is only an aver-
As you study the diagram of the constellation age size star. It seems the brightest because it
Crux (Figure 5) try to imagine the tremendous is the nearest star to us on Earth.
degree of separation of each star from what The star Sirius in the constellation of Canis
would appear to be its close neighbour. This Major appears considerably brighter than Rigel
three-dimensional phenomenon holds true in Orion. However, Rigel is actually thousands
for the relationships between all stars in the of times brighter than Sirius. It appears fainter
heavens. because it is over a thousand light years away,
while Sirius is only 8 ½ light years from us.

M e as u r i n g d is t a n c e s i n t h e s k y â•… 9
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
American! What trifling results from mighty causes flow. A People
rise in Revolution—that a mere little American girl may adorn her
brown-red hair with a grand-ducal crown.”
“The People don't appear to have had any voice in the matter,”
said Lucilla, poring over the paper. “It was just a handful of officers.
It was what they call a Palace Revolution.”
“It was what the judicious call a Comic Opera Revolution,” said
Ponty. “It was a Palace version of Box and Cox.”
He went down to the Lung 'Arno, and found Bertram, pale,
agitated, in the midst of packing.
“Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk of congratulations,” the troubled
young man cried, walking up and down the floor, and all but
wringing his hands, while his servant went methodically on folding
trousers and waistcoats. “This may be altogether the worst thing
that could possibly have happened, so far as I'm concerned.”
“I see you're packing,” Pontycroft remarked.
“Yes—we've had a telegram from my father ordering us to join
him at once. We leave at twelve o'clock by a special train. My dear
chap, I'm sick. I'm in a cold perspiration. Feel my hands.” His hands
were indeed cold and wet. He pressed one of them to his side. “And
there's something here that weighs like a ton of ice. I can hardly
breathe.”
“The remedy indicated,” said Ponty, “is a brandy-and-soda.”
Bertram's gesture pushed the remedy from him.
“A single spoonful would make me drunk,” he said. “I'm as nearly
as possible off my head already. I feel as if I were going out to be
hanged. If it weren't for my mother—some one's got to go with her
—upon my word, I'd funk it, and take the consequences.”
“Allons donc,” Ponty remonstrated. “A certain emotion is what you
must expect—it's part of the game. But think of your luck. Think of
your grandeurs. Think of the experience, the adventure, that's
before you. To be a real, actual, practising Royalty, a Royal Heir
Apparent. Think of the new angle of view from which you'll be able
to look at life.”
“Luck? Don't speak of it,” Bertram groaned. “If I had known, if I
had dreamed. But we were kept in the dark absolutely. Oh, it was
outrageous of the old man. We had a right at least to be warned,
hadn't we? Since it involves our entire destinies? Since every one of
our hopes, plans, intentions, great or small, is affected by it? We had
a right to be warned, if not to be consulted. But never a word—until
this morning—first the newspaper—and then his wire. Think of my
mother being left to learn the thing from a newspaper. And then his
wire: 'Come at once to Altronde.' I feel like a conscript. I feel like a
man suddenly summoned from freedom to slavery.”
“You'll find your chains bearable—you'll find them interesting,”
Ponty said. “You leave at noon by a special train. Is there any way,
meanwhile, in which I can be useful to you?”
“Yes—no—no. Unless you can devise some way to get me out of
the mess. The special train is for my mother. In her own fashion
she's as much upset as I am. She could not travel coram publico,
poor lady.”
“No, of course not. I hope you will make her my compliments,”
said Ponty, rising.
“Thank you. And you will say good-bye to Lady Dor for us and—
and to Miss Adgate,” Bertram responded. But there was a catch in
his voice, and he grew perceptibly paler. “I—I,” he stumbled,
hesitated, “I will write to you as soon as I know where I am.”
Ponty went home thoughtful; thoughtful, but conscious of an
elusive inward satisfaction. This rather puzzled him. “It's the sort of
thing one feels when one has succeeded in evading an unpleasant
duty—a sentiment of snugness, safety, safety and relief. But what
unpleasant duty have I succeeded in evading?” he asked himself. Yet
there it was—the comfortable sense of a duty shirked.
“I'm in doubt whether to hail you as the Queen Elect of Yvetot, or
to offer you my condolences upon the queering of your pitch,” he
said to Ruth. “He loved and rode away. He certainly loved, and he's
as certainly riding away—at twelve o'clock to-day, by a special train.
I supposed he would charge me with a message for you—but no—
none except a commonplace good-bye. No promise, nothing
compromising, nothing that could be used as evidence against him.
However, he said he'd write—as soon as he knew whether he was
standing on his head or on his heels. One thing, though, you might
do—there's still time. You might go to the railway station and cover
his flight with mute reproaches. Perhaps the sight of your distraught
young face would touch his conscience. You might get the necessary
word from him before the train started.”
“Be quiet, Harry,” said Lucilla. “You shan't chaff her any longer.
Prince Bertrandoni is a man of honour—and he's as good as pledged
to her already. This is a merely momentary interruption. As soon as
he's adjusted his affairs to the new conditions, he'll come back.”
“Ay, we know these comings back,” answered Ponty, ominously.
“But a wise fisherman lands his fish while it's on the hook, and
doesn't give it a chance of swimming away and coming back. I see a
pale face at the window, watching, waiting; and I hear a sad voice
murmuring, 'He cometh not.'”
“You're intolerable,” Lucilla cried out, with an impatient gesture.
“Ruth, don't pay him the least attention.”
“Oh, don't mind me,” said Ruth. “I'm vastly amused. Faithful are
the wounds of a friend.”
“There's just one element of hope,” Ponty ended, “and that is that
even to demi-semi Royalty a matter of thirty thousand a year must
be a consideration.”
A column from Altronde in the Fieramosca of the morrow gave a
glowing description of Bertram's and his mother's arrival, which
Pontycroft translated at the breakfast table: how the Grand Duke, in
the uniform of a general, met and tenderly embraced them as they
stepped from the train, and drove with them in a “lando di gala”
through streets brilliant with flags and thronged by cheering
subjects, to the Palace, escorted by the selfsame regiment of guards
whose officers the other day had so summarily cooked the goose of
Massimiliano. “That is pretty and touching,” was Ponty's comment,
“but listen to this—this is rich. The Grand Duke introduced them to
his people, in a proclamation, as 'my most dear and ever dutiful son,
and my beloved consort, the companion and consoler of my long
exile!' What so false as truth is? Well, there's nothing either true or
false but thinking makes it so. And the mayor and corporation, in a
loyal address, welcomed Bertram as the 'heir to the virtues as well
as to the throne of his august progenitor.' His august progenitor's
virtues were jewels which, during his career in Paris, at any rate, he
modestly concealed. However! Oh, but here—here's something that
really is interesting. 'The festivities of the evening were terminated
by a banquet, at which the Grand Duke graciously made a speech.'
Listen to one of the things he said: 'It has been represented to me
as the earnest aspiration of my people that my solemn coronation
should be celebrated at the earliest possible date. But unhappily, the
crown of my fathers has been sullied by contact with the brows of a
usurping dynasty. That crown I will never wear. A new, a virgin
crown must be placed upon the head of your restored legitimate
sovereign. And I herewith commission my dear son, whom Heaven
has endowed, among many noble gifts, with the eye and the hand
of an artist, to design a crown which shall be worthy of his sire,
himself, and his posterity.' Well, that will keep Bertram out of
mischief. I see him from here—see and hear him—bending over his
drawing-board, with busy pencil, and whistling 'The girl I left behind
me.'”
And then a servant entered bearing a telegram.
“What will you give me,” Ponty asked, when he had opened and
glanced at it, “if I'll read this out?”
“Whom's it from?” asked Lucilla.
“The last person on earth that you'd expect,” he answered.
“Come, what will you give?”
“I believe it's from Prince Bertrandoni himself,” cried Lucilla, agog.
“If it is, we'll give you fits if you don't read it out—and at once.” She
showed him her clenched fist.
 “Very good. Under that threat, I'll read it,” remarked Ponty, and he
read: “Arrived safely, but homesick for dear Villa Santa Cecilia. My
mother joins her thanks to mine for your constant kindness. Will
write as soon as an hour of tranquillity permits. Please give my
affectionate greetings to Lady Dor and Miss Adgate, and beg them
not to forget their and your devoted Bertram.”
“There!” crowed Lucilla. “What did I tell you?”
Ponty looked up blankly. “What did you tell me?”
“That he would come back—that this was only a momentary
interruption.”
“Does he say anything about coming back?” Ponty asked,
scrutinizing the straw-coloured paper. “That must have missed my
eye.”
“Boo,” said Lucilla. “What does he mean by the hope of an early
reunion?”
“A slip of the pen for blessed resurrection, I expect,” said Ponty.
“Boo,” said Lucilla. “It's the message of a man obviously,
desperately, in love—yearning to communicate with his loved one—
but to save appearances, or from lover-like timidity perhaps,
addressing his communication to a third person. That telegram is
meant exclusively for Ruth, and you're merely used as a gooseberry.
Oh, Ruth, I do congratulate you.” Ruth vaguely laughed.
 PART FOURTH
I

F
OR quite a week—wasn't it?—obscure little Altronde held the
centre of the stage. The newspapers of France and England, as
well as those of Italy, had daily paragraphs. Belated details,
coming in like stragglers after a battle, gave vividness to the story.
Massimiliano, at Paris, plaintively indignant, overflowed in interviews.
In interviews also, in speeches, in proclamations, Civillo adumbrated,
magniloquently, vaguely, his future policy. There were “Character
Sketches,” reminiscent, anecdotal, of Civillo, “By a lifelong Friend,” of
Massimiliano, “By a Former Member of his Household,” etc. etc.
There were even character sketches of poor Bertram, “By an Old
Harrovian,” “By One who knew him at Cambridge,” which I hope he
enjoyed reading. In the illustrated papers, of course, there were
portraits. And in some of the weightier periodicals the past history of
Altronde was recalled, a bleak, monotonous history, little more than
a catalogue of murders....
With dagger thrusts and cups of poison, for something like three
long sad hundred years, the rival houses of Bertrandoni and Ceresini
had played the game of give and take. Finally, there were leading
articles condemning the revolution as an act of brigandage, hailing it
as a forward step towards liberty and light. And then, at the week's
end, the theme was dropped.
We may believe that the newspapers were read with interest at
Villa Santa Cecilia, and that to the mistress of that household, on the
subject of Altronde, they never seemed to contain enough.
“It's almost as if we'd had a hand in the affair,” she reflected; “but
these scrappy newspaper accounts leave us with no more knowledge
than as if we were complete outsiders. Why don't they give more
particulars? Why aren't they more intime?”
“I'll tell you what,” said Ponty, “let's go there. It's only half a day's
journey. There we can study the question on the spot.”
“Yes, and look as if we were running after him. No, thank you,”
sniffed Lucilla.
“I dare say we should look a little like accusing spirits, if he saw
us,” Ponty admitted.
“But let's go in disguise. We can shave our heads, stain our skins,
wear elastic-sided boots and pass ourselves off as an Albanian
currant merchant and his family travelling to improve our minds in
foreign politics.”
“I see Ruth and myself,” Lucilla yawned, “swathed in embroideries
and wearing elasticsided boots, and presently we should be arrested
as spies, and when our innocent curiosity had been well aired by the
press, we should look to Bertram Bertrandoni more like accusing
spirits than ever.”
“You women,” growled Pontycroft, extracting a cigarette from his
cigarette case, “are so relentlessly cautious! You have no faith in the
unexpected! That's why you'll never know the supreme content of
throwing your bonnets over the mills, regardless of consequences.”
“The Consequences!” Lucilla retorted, “they're too obvious. We
should be left bareheaded, et voilà tout!”
“Ah, well—there you are,” replied Ponty, and touched a match to
his cigarette.
Yes, we may believe that the newspapers were read with interest
at the Villa Santa Cecilia and that they gave the man there occasion
for what his sister called “a prodigious deal of jawing.”
“Well, my poor Ariadne,” he commiserated, “ginger is still hot in
the mouth, and Naxos is still a comfortable place of sojourn. Our
star has been snatched from us and borne aloft to its high orbit in
the heavens; we from our lowly coigne of earth can watch and
unselfishly rejoice at its high destiny. Of course, the one thing to
regret is that you didn't nail him when you had him. Nail the wild
star to its track in the half climbed Zodiac,” he advised, sententious.
And in spirit ripe for mischief, Ponty bethought him of a long-
forgotten poem, and he went all the way down to Vieusseux to
procure a volume of the works of Wordsworth. Henceforth, dreamily,
from time to time, he would fall to repeating favourite lines. For
nearly a day Ruth bore, with equanimity tempered by repartee, a
volley of verse:

“He was a lovely youth, I guess”

said Ponty,

“The panther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he.”

“I cannot dispute it. He was good-looking,” Ruth suavely returned.

“But,”—this he let fall from the terrace an hour later, to Ruth
engaged below in snipping dead leaves from Lucilla's clambering
rose bushes,—

“But, when his father called, the youth

Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.”

“Fathers make, like mothers, I imagine, a poor substitute for

brides,” said Ruth. She glanced at him with amusement. “Never, my
nurse used to tell me, is a good while. Did that foolish youth find his
bride?” she added, absorbed apparently in her occupation, “when he
came back to claim her? As he did at last, you may rest assured.”
Pontycroft made no reply to this question, but he placed his book
on the table and prepared to descend the steps:
 “God help thee, Ruth,”

he exclaimed.

“Such pains she had

That she in half a year went mad.”

“I'm sure she would have gone mad in twenty-four hours if you
had been by to persecute the poor thing,” answered Ruth. She beat
a hasty retreat towards the Pergola, whither, she knew, Ponty's
laziness would check pursuit of her.
“When Ruth was left half desolate,” Ponty, casually, after
luncheon, observed—

“Her lover took another state.

And Ruth not thirty years old.”

“Ruth, it seems to me, was old enough to have known better,”

retorted his victim with asperity. “You haven't scanned that last line
properly either. 'And Ruth not thirty years old' gives the correct lilt.”
Ruth sat down to write her letters. She turned her back with
deliberation upon her tormentor, who answered: “Oh, yes, thanks,”
and went off murmuring and tattooing on his fingers,—

“And Ruth not thirty years old....”

II
Towards five o'clock of that day, Lucilla and Ruth, spurred and
booted—hatted and gloved from their afternoon's drive, appeared
for tea upon the terrace. Ponty without loss of time opened fire:

“A slighted child, at her own will,

Went wandering over dale and hill
In thoughtless freedom bold.”

“Only that I can't wander, in thoughtless freedom bold, over dale

and hill in this fair false land of Italy,” cried Ruth, exasperated, “I
should start at once for a fortnight's walking tour. I feel an excessive
desire to remove myself from a deluge of poetic allusions which
threatens to get on my nerves. Moreover,” she added severely, “I
quite fail to see their application.”
She sat down, drew her gloves off with a little militant air, and
prepared to pour the tea which the servant had placed upon a table
at her elbow. In the fine October weather the terrace, provided with
abundance of tables, chairs and rugs, made, with its superb view
over Florence, the pleasantest of al fresco extensions to the
drawing-room.
“There, there, there, Ruthie!” soothed Pontycroft, “don't resent a
little natural avuncular chaff. I must play the fool or play the devil.
You wouldn't wish to suppress my devouring curiosity, would you?
Here's a situation brimful of captivating possibilities. You wouldn't
have me sit in unremunerative silence, in sterile torpor before this
case of a little American girl, who, on any day of the week, may be
called to assume the exalted rôle of Crown Princess of Altronde?”
“Yes,” frowned Ruth, “I should very much like to suppress your
devouring curiosity; I should like extremely to reduce you to a state
of unremunerative silence, torpor, on that verily sterile topic. And,
moreover, so far as I can see, the Royal Incident may now be
billeted closed, for weal or for woe.”
“One can never be quite sure about these Royal Incidents,” her
tormentor persisted, “that's the lark about 'em—they're never
closed. For sheer pig-headed obstinacy give me a Crown Prince. Our
friend Bertram is capable of letting his Queen Mamma in for a deal
of trouble in view of present circumstances, if she should, as she's
likely to do—want now to marry him off to some Semi-Royalty or
German Grand Duchess or another.”
“Si puo,” riposted Ruth with hauteur, “I withdraw myself in
advance from the competition. And I should like, please, to be
spared any more allusions to the subject.”
But here Lucilla, who had been sipping her tea and worshipping
the view, interrupted them:
“Do please cease from wrangling,” she implored. “Hold your
breaths both of you—and behold!”
A haze all golden,—an impalpable dust of gold,—filled the entire
watch-tower of the Heavens. Florence, twice glorified, lay bathed in
yellow light that filtered benignantly upon roofs and gardens, played,
glanced, upon Duomo, Campanile, and Baptistry. The Arno had
become a way of gold. Webs of yellow gauze, spun across the
streets and reflected by a thousand windows, made, among the
many gardens, a burnished background for the twigs and branches
of dark aspiring cypresses, glossy leaved ilexes.
Ruth and Pontycroft held their breaths, and, for a moment, there
was a silence.
“I wonder,” Lucilla said at length,—she gave a little soft sigh of
satisfaction,—“I wonder what Prince Bertrandoni has done with
Balzatore.... Taken him, do you suppose, to reign over the dogs of
Altronde? I miss that dog sadly.”
“Balzatore?—Oh,” said Ponty, “Balzatore is throning it at the
Palazzo Reale.... He has a special attendant who waits on him, sees
to his bodily comforts; prepares his food, takes him for his walks,—
for of course Bertram is far too involved in Court functions, too tied
by etiquette and the fear of Anarchists to go for long solitary
rambles; and Balzatore bullies the servants, one and all, you may be
sure. Dogs, even the best of 'em, are shocking snobs. In a measure
Balzatore is enjoying himself. It hardly requires a pen'orth of
imagination to be positive of it. And,” Pontycroft continued, “I hear
that the Palazzo Bertrandoni has been leased for a number of years
to an American painter. By the way, it seems that Bertram's
bookcases, which, saving your presences, I grieve to state, were
filled with very light literature—the writings of decadent poets,
people who begin with a cynicism”—Pontycroft paused, hesitated for
the just word.
“A cynicism with which nobody ends!” Ruth interjected.
“Invaluable young thing! Thanks awfully. Who begin, as you say,
with a cynicism with which nobody ends, as you quite aptly infer.
Filled, too, I regret to state, with rare editions, a trifle, well—perhaps
a bit eighteenth century—and with yellow paper-covered French
novels. These bookcases are expiating a life of frivolity within the
four walls of a Convent. They were offered by Bertram's mother to
some Sisters of Charity whose temporal welfare she looks after. The
good nuns were glad to have the shelves for their poor schools and
have packed them with edifying books.... So it happens that to-day
they ornament both sides of the Convent-Parloir, and thus it is that
Bertram's bookshelves are atoning for the gay, wild, extravagant, old
days within convent walls.”
Lucilla tittered. “Shall our end be as exemplary?” Ruth asked,
pensive, “or will it fade away into chill and nothingness—like the
glory of this,” she smiled at Pontycroft, “April afternoon? B-r-r-r——-”
She gave a little shiver.
Pontycroft pulled himself to his feet.
“Tut, tut!” said he. He proffered two white garments which lay
over the back of a chair to Ruth and to his sister. “What are these
melancholy sentiments? Aren't you contented? Aren't you satisfied,
aren't you pleased here?” he asked, and he eyed Ruth inquisitorially.
“Oh yes,—oh yes, I am,” Ruth quickly assured him. “But I do get,
now and then, tiresome conscientious scruples. In these halcyon
hours I wonder if it isn't my duty to go and have a look at my dear
old uncle, all alone there, in America.”
“Ruth—my dear Ruth!” cried Lucilla.
 “Why doesn't your 'dear old uncle' come and have a look at you? I
think it's his duty to do so; I've thought so for many a day.”
“Oh, he's bound to his fireside, I suppose,” Ruth answered, a
touch of melancholy in her voice. “He's wedded to his chimney
corner, his books. At seventy-two it's a bore, perhaps, to go
wandering into foreign parts.”
“Foreign parts!” Lucilla cried with some scorn. “Are we Ogres?
Barbarians? Do we live in the Wilds of America?”
“My dear infant, beware,” cautioned Pontycroft, “beware of the
rudiments in your nature of that terrible New England instrument of
torture, the Nonconformist Conscience. Despite your Catholic
upbringing it will, if you indulge it, I fear, lead you to your ruin. The
Nonconformist conscience, I beg you to believe, makes cowards of
us all. Now I should suggest a much better plan, and one I have
always approved of. Let's pack up our duds, as the saying goes, in
your country; let's return to sane and merry England; let us for the
future and since the pinch of Winter is at our heels, Summer in the
South and Winter in the North.”
“England?” gasped Lucilla and Ruth in one breath.
“Why not?” enquired the man of the family. “You are, after all,
never so comfortable anywhere, in Winter, as in an English Country
House. Roaring fires, invisible hot-water pipes; cozy dark days,
libraries full of books, Mudie by post two hours away. Wassailing and
Christmas waits; holly and mistletoe, hey for an English winter, sing
I! Plum pudding, mince pies, tenants to tip, neighbours,
hospitalities.”
“Ugh,” Lucilla wailed, “Perish the awful thought! Neighbours
'calling in sensible, slightly muddy boots' (as your favourite author
too truthfully has it), in tweeds and short skirts;—and for
conversation—Heaven defend us! The turnip crops, the Pytchley,
penny readings, and the latest gossip anent a next-door neighbour.
Night all the day—night again at night—and whisky-and-soda at
eleven, day or night,—eternally variegated by that boring, semper-
eternal Bridge. You'll have to go without me,” declared Lucilla flatly.
 “Have you generally Wintered in the North, Summered in the
South?” Ruth queried with a gleam.
“No—No,—” replied Pontycroft reflectively, “no,—but if one hasn't
really tried it since one's callow days the idea does speak to one. It
isn't all beautiful prattle,” he assured her, “but the idea does appeal
to one. As one grows old one prefers to be comfortable. A pabulum
of beauty is all very well for young things like yourself here and
Lucilla who still hug the precious foolish delusion that Beauty is
Truth, Truth Beauty.”
Pontycroft's indolent glance encompassed Florence,—that fair
spectacle she presents, in the aura of twilight,—the exquisite hour,
l'heure exquise. Her amphitheatre of hills,—her white villas, even
now charged with rose by the evening glow,—aglow her churches,
her gardens and black cypresses. “Yet this is all too like,” he
commented, “the enchanter's dream,—at a puff!... No! Fact, Fact,
solid Fact is the desideratum! Fact's your miracle in a nutshell. What
you and Lucilla call Truth alters with every fresh discovery of man,
his climate, education, point of view. Man carries your Beauty in his
eye, ears, senses. But Fact, humanly speaking, Fact doesn't give you
the least trouble. There it is. Did it never occur to you how
splendidly reposeful a fact it is that a turnip field's a turnip field, until
you sow beans to rejuvenate it? And here's another, equally
comforting: The spider spins its web from its own vitals. Ah, Facts
spare one such a deal of thinking, such a lot of enthusiasm!... In
your country, my dear young thing,” Pontycroft turned to Ruth, “in
your strange, weird, singular, incomprehensible country they sow
buckwheat cakes when the turf on the lawn's been killed by frosts;
and when the buckwheat cakes have grown, and blossomed—they
plough them back into the earth, and sow their grass—and in a
month you have your velvet robe again. In similar manner the fact
that a cozy English Winter's a cozy English Winter is one agreeably
worthy your attention.”
“This flummery of rose bushes,” went on Pontycroft, while his arm
described a semicircle,—“this romance of nodding trees laden with
oranges ornamental to the landscape; this volubility of heliotrope,
mimosa, violets in January, all, all—in a conspiracy to lure one to sit
out o' doors and catch an internal, infernal chill,” he sneezed; “all
this taken together is not worth that one fine solid indisputable
British Fact, a comfortable English Winter! Uncompromising cold
without, cheer within.”
“But it's not Winter yet,” Lucilla argued plaintively, “it's only
October. Hadn't you better apply the fact of an overcoat to what
you've been telling us? You've plunged me into anything but a state
of cheer with your sophistries—this absurd juggling with the doleful
joys of an English Winter!”
“Apropos of the joys of an English Winter, I wonder whether the
post has come?” said Ruth, jumping up. “Pietro's delicacy about
disturbing us at tea Lucilla won't call mere laziness. I'll send him for
your overcoat,” she added, with a laughing nod, and vanished
through the French windows.

III
“Ah,—you see!”
Pontycroft after Ruth's departure ponderated thus on the tone of
significance, to his sister. “Ah, ha! You see.... She's eager for news.
She's expecting something.... She's on the watch for every post.”
“You're quite off the scent, Harry,” returned his sister languidly.
Lucilla, it was plain, was still disturbed by her brother's chaff.
“It's her uncle's semi-annual missive she's so eagerly on the
lookout for. The child nourishes a perfect hero-worship for the old
man; she writes to him six times to his one. His letters come with
military precision, once in a six month. They're invariably brief, and
they invariably wind up with this hospitable apophthegm,
'Remember the string's on the latchet of the door whenever you
choose to pull it. Whenever you care to look upon your home in
Oldbridge you will find a hearty welcome from your affectionate
uncle,' then a sabre thrust, his name,—presumably.”
 Lucilla rose, with that languid grace she was so famous for. She
went to the edge of the terrace and leaned upon the balustrade,
where she remained, silently taking in her fill of the peaceful
landscape.

IV
Ten minutes elapsed.
Pontycroft, in silence, smoked and wafted the rings of his cigarette
towards Florence. And then Ruth reappeared.
She looked pale in the dusk, agitated. In her hands were a couple
of letters, she held out one to Lucilla.
“Read it,”—her voice trembled,—“Tell me what I have done to be
so insulted,” she commanded; and then she turned away her face,
and suddenly she began to weep. Pontycroft watched her in
consternation. He had never, in all the years he had known her, he
had never seen Ruth in tears.
Lucilla took the letter, blazoned with a gold crown. She read down
the page, she turned over to the next, she read on to the end.
“May I see it?—May I see it, Ruth?” Pontycroft asked gently.
Ruth bowed her head. As Pontycroft read she looked at him, her
hands lying idly in her lap; and she saw his face cloud as he read.
But he, having finished the communication, fell silent for a moment.
“Poor Bertram!” he let fall at last, dropping the letter upon the
table.
“Poor Bertram!” cried Ruth. She dabbed her eyes, she made an
immense, unsuccessful effort to control herself, quell the ire in her
heart.
“Poor Bertram!” she broke forth scornfully. “What have I done,
what can I have done, to be subjected to such an indignity? Did I
lead him on? If I had encouraged him! Lucilla, speak, speak the
truth. You both know I did nothing of the sort!” And Ruth stamped
her foot. “Has the Heir Apparent to that obscure little Principality
called Altronde had any encouragement from me of any kind?...
Notwithstanding his visits here, notwithstanding the amusement
you've had at my expense!” Ruth looked wrathfully at Pontycroft.
“And this, this deliberate, this detestable, this cold-blooded
proposition. And you can say 'Poor Bertram'!” But then she fell to
sobbing violently.
Lucilla flew to her, folded protecting arms about her.
“Ruth, dear, don't feel so.... Darling! I don't wonder, I do not
wonder!... But after all, for him, it is an impossible predicament. He
is to be pitied. You can do nothing better than to feel sorry for him.
He's madly in love with you,—that's too evident. Presently you'll be
able to laugh at it,—at him.”
“Laugh at it?” Ruth cried. “Ah, how lightly it hits you! Laugh at
it?... I shall never laugh at it, I shall never laugh at it. I can shudder
and wonder at the monstrous pride it reveals, the arrogance of a
little Princeling called to reign over his obscure little Principality.” She
drew herself up.
“Here is that dear old uncle of mine,” said she, tightening her
clasp upon the letter she still held in her hand,—“My uncle, who
writes to me for the ninetieth time: 'The string is on the latchet of
the door, why not come and pay a visit to your old home, have a
look at your ancestral acres'?”
“Oh,” exclaimed Ruth rather hysterically, “I will go and have a look
at my ancestral acres! And these Wohenhoffens, these Bertrandoni,
who are they to fancy themselves privileged to offer me a
morganatic marriage with their son? But I execrate them! I execrate
everything they represent! I, Ruth Adgate, to have been exposed to
it!” And now, again, she began to sob.
Pontycroft looked exceedingly distressed.
“Child, child,” he said, “you may believe that Lucilla and I never
remotely dreamed of this dénouement. I'm not in the least surprised
at your indignation,—your horror,—but I am not in the least
surprised, either, that poor Bertram, in the tangle of his
environment, with his tradition, and impelled by a hopeless passion
(oh, my prophetic eye), did what he could, has written offering you
the only honourable thing he could offer you, a morganatic
marriage. Absurd, outrageous though this sounds to you, it is a legal
marriage, and remember that the poor chap's in a hole, a dreadful
box. Shed rather a pitying tear upon his blighted young affections....
He can't hope to have you, knew probably how you'd take his offer,
but he gritted his teeth and made it like the wholly decent chap he
is.
“And I would even wax pathetic,” continued Pontycroft, “when I
think of him. Could any fate be more depressing than his? You'll
never speak to him again! While he, poor fellow, is doomed to marry
some sallow Grand Duchess for the sake of the Dynasty. Farewell
love, farewell comradry, farewell all the nice, easy-going businesses
of life. Buck up and be a Crown Prince! Become a puppet, a puppet
on exhibition to your subjects. Whatever you like to do that's gay,
that's human, debonair,—you'll have to do it on the sly as though it
were a sin, or overcome mountains of public censure. In fact,
whether you please yourself or whether you don't—the majority will
always find fault with you. Poor Bertram, I say, poor old Bertram....
His proud Wohenhoffen of a mother is the only member of that
Royal trio, I fancy, who is thoroughly pleased with the new order of
affairs, for Civillo will soon be making matters hot for himself if he
doesn't turn over a new leaf.”

V
Ruth dried her eyes.
“You were quite right when you talked of wintering in the North,
Harry,” she said at length, still somewhat tremulous. “It doesn't
seem as though in the North this could possibly have happened. I
think you know,” she took Lucilla's hand, “I think I shall try wintering
in the North—I'll accept my uncle's invitation; I'll pull the string on
the latchet, I'll go and have a look at the old man and at my bleak
New England acres. After all,” added Ruth, with rather a wan smile,
“I suppose it's something to have acres, though one has never
realised the fact or thought of it before. I haven't an idea what mine
are like, but it will be good to walk on them, to feel I've got them.
Here I'm always made to feel such a plebeian.—Yes, I'm made to
feel such a plebeian. Oh no, not by you,” Ruth clasped Lucilla's hand
and looked affectionately, a trifle, too, defiantly towards Pontycroft,
“but they all seem to think, even the rather ordinary ones, like Mrs.
Wilberton and Stuart Seton, an American exists to be patronised. No
pedigree. An American! Well, who knows, perhaps I have a
pedigree. I'll go at least where I can't be patronised, where they
know about me.”
Pontycroft gave a laugh, which rang not altogether gaily.
“In other words, Miss Adgate must have her experience,” he said.
“Miss Adgate's had all she wants of the old world.—She must be
on with the new. Besides, her pride's been wounded.... A prince has
offered her matrimony, morganatic but honourable marriage. That
won't do for her. She's wounded in her feelings, outraged by the
suggestion, and she includes the whole of Europe in her resentment.
Oh, my dear young lady” said Pontycroft after another moment's
silence, “don't talk to me of pride! You Americans are the devil for
pride. Ruth, you've been toadied to and you fancy you've been
patronised.... Well, well, have your experience. What great results
from little causes flow! Prove to us that you're not only as good but
a great deal better than any of us. We poor humble folk, we'll submit
to anything, if when you've had your experience and are satisfied,
you'll come back to us. But you don't mean it, you don't mean it! Or,
if you go you'll return, you'll not forsake your adopted country, your
father's friends, your's.”
Ruth's eyes darkened.
“Haven't you always, both of you, been too good to me?” she
cried, reproachfully. “Ever since I was a little child, you and Lucilla,
you know that you two have been, ever shall be, in my heart of
hearts. But I must get away from all this; I must do something!... I
must find myself!” she cried. “Say what you will, think what you like,
this proposition is too loathsome. It has opened my eyes to so many
things I had only felt, before! It may be all a question of wounded
pride, as you say, but I know it's the proper sort of pride. I've seen it
now, the whole, whole, unfriendly situation, in a flash. Lucilla,” she
pleaded, “you'll sympathise with me; you won't condemn me if I go,
you'll never think I love you an ounce the less?”
Lucilla stroked Ruth's hand.
“My dear,” said she, “the thing's a sheer incredible bolt out of the
blue, incredible! I believe,” she said, rounding upon her brother, “I
believe it's the outcome of Pontycroft's foolish talk,—the result of his
passion for being paradoxical or perish. Here we were—having our
teas quite innocently in the garden, like the dear nice people we are,
—perfectly happy, absolutely content,—as why shouldn't we be in
this paradise?” Lucilla opened her blue eyes wide upon the
landscape and glanced accusingly at Pontycroft. “But you've
precipitated us into a mess,” she said to him, “with your ribald talk
about wintering in our water-soaked British Islands. Then comes this
ridiculous letter,—and, of course, Ruth can't sit still under it. Yes, it is
perhaps after all, a wholesome notion of yours, Ruth, a visit to your
own country. It's the best bath you can take to wash out the taste
left by Bertram's well-meant but preposterous letter. Besides,” she
laughed, “you'll come back to us! America can't gobble you up for
ever. But what shall we do without you!—And as for Harry, I feel
sorry for him. He'll find no one to give him the change when he's in
the mood for teasing, no one to keep him in his proper place. He'll
become unbearable.”
“Oh,” fleered Pontycroft, “if Ruth forsakes us I will go back to my
native land! I'll go where I can toast my shins before my fireside and
experience the solid comforts of a British Winter.... I'll go home to
my duties, go where I can worry my tenants, read Mudie the
livelong day; feel that I, too, am somebody!”
Ruth smiled, rather forlornly.
“I want you to observe,” Pontycroft with mock contrition enlarged,
“how one evil deed begets a quantity of others—a congeries of
miseries out of which, at last, good springeth like the flowering
beanstalk. In idle hour (mark the magic potency of words), I speak
of wintering in the North. Now as you've been told more than once,
—idleness is the parent of wickedness. Lucilla assures me that in my
paradoxical idleness I am a parent to a quite unexpected degree.
Now observe,—the offer of a morganatic marriage follows speedily
on the heels of my sin, the sin of an idle paradox. Then Ruth
becomes guilty of the sin of anger—tossing her pretty head and
stamping her pretty foot, she declares she won't play in our yard any
longer. She stamps her pretty foot and announces she's going back
to her own New England apple orchard. The rudiments of her
Nonconformist, New England conscience, thoroughly roused,—her
thoughts fly towards home and her aged uncle. In my remorse, I, in
virtue not to be outdone, decide to go back to my duties. Lucilla,
conventionalised British matron that au fond she is, spite of her
protests, already, because she must, assembles to her soul her list of
social obligations at Dublin, the frocks to plan, and the dinner parties
to give prior to the coming out and Presentation at Court of her
eldest child. Home, home, home,” murmured Pontycroft, “sweet
home is the tune we'll all be whistling within a month. Lucilla will
carol it from her bog because it isn't considered polite to whistle in
Ireland; but I, from my Saxon heath and Ruth from God's country
will imitate the blackbirds. Could any tune be more acceptable to the
Nonconformist conscience? Ruth, you perceive, already begins to
dominate! Columbia, Ruler of the sea and wave—see how she sends
us about our neglected and obvious affairs. High-ho for Winter in the
North,” said Ponty. “But meantime I'm going to array myself for
dinner and here comes Pietro.”
“Thank Heaven for the trivialities of life,” Lucilla put in with
fervour. “Ruth, shall we don our best gowns in honour of the
unexpected? Harry may dub this the call to duty; I know it's never
anything so dull. I know that the spirit of adventure he's hailed has
seized upon both of you, is lifting us all, will-he nill-he, out of our
beautiful dolce far niente into something restless, violent, and
tiresome. As for me—there's nothing, naught left for me, poor me!
to do but to follow your lead.”
 “Yes, by all means,” Ruth lightly acquiesced.
“We'll put our best frocks on; and let us hope the call to duty
decked in purple and fine linen, masquerading as the spirit of
adventure, may lead us up to consummations....” She broke off.
“Devoutly to be wished for,” she whispered to herself under her
breath.

VI
“If I'm to be made the arbiter of other destinies when my own are
more than I can manage” (they were dallying over figs and apricots
at breakfast)—“pray, you two good people tell me, kindly, when shall
we begin to throw our bonnets over the mill? In other words, on
what day and in what month do we start in search of Winter in the
North?” Ruth enquired, to a feint of cheerfulness and little dreaming.
“Oh, to-morrow—To-morrow, if you like,” jerked Pontycroft. “Wait
not upon the order of your going, but start at once.”
“Start to-morrow!” Lucilla cried, “start to-morrow? Impossible.”
“Why impossible? Nothing is impossible. Ruth wants to go. She
said so last night, she more than hints it, to-day. What woman
wants, God wants.” Oblivious to the truth that a woman, his sister,
panted to remain, Pontycroft glanced at the newspaper at his elbow.
“A steamer sails from Genoa tomorrow afternoon, the Princess
Irene. I'll go down to Humbert's this moment as ever is,” he added,
“and have them wire for a deck cabin.”
“No, no,” protested Lucilla. “Why leave all this loveliness at once?
Impossible! Besides, we have people coming to dinner tomorrow,”
she remembered hopefully. “Thursday. The Newburys and young
Worthington. We can't put them off.”
“We can, and we shall,” asseverated Ponty. “There's nothing so
dreadful, Lucilla, as these long superfluous drawn-out farewells,
these impending good-byes. Send Pietro, if you like, to say we've all
responded to a call of duty. Tell your friends in all charity, that when
duty calls the wise youth replies: 'I won't.' Why?... Because he
knows that nine times out of ten duty is only what somebody else
thinks he ought to be doing. But tell them duty's only skin deep, by
way of advice. Tell them one's response to duty is generally the
mere weak living up to somebody else's good opinion of one. Say to
them: 'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.' But say that in this case it's
otherwise—we're not wise, and we've answered with one accord: 'I
will.' Say to them that therein lies our folly.—We're exceedingly sorry
—sorry, but we must be off. It shall be a seven days' wonder,
Florence shall have something to talk about. She needs brisking up.
Ruth, I'm off to engage your passage. The sooner you go, the
sooner you'll come back to tell us all about it,—tell us whether the
play was worth the candle.”
Ponty rang for his stick and his hat, lighted the inevitable
cigarette.
“Paolina will pack you up, Ruth, if she has to keep busy until
midnight,” he directed, between two puffs. “Lucilla, Pietro can help
Maria with your paraphernalia; when I'm back here with our tickets
he'll be half through the packing. Lazy duffer though he be, once he
begins, he's rapid as radium.” Ponty was gone before either Lucilla or
Ruth could protest.
They looked at one another.... What ludicrous extravagance of
sudden breaking up! This high-handed method of bringing matters
summarily to a climax struck them both. Lucilla and Ruth broke into
peals of laughter.
The irresponsible sun glared—into their eyes—played, flamboyant
among the glass and silverware of the breakfast table; it winked in
prismatic rays from crystal angles of honey pots and threw its
splashes of blinding light over the damask table cloth, borrowing
rosy tints from a mass of pink geranium in a bowl of Nagasaki ware.
It glanced at all the polished surfaces of the old carved oak
furniture; the room was one flagrant and joyous outburst of morning
sunlight, the garden an invitation to come out, come out and play,
and enjoy life from its inception! Elusive, dewy, odorous lovelinesses
rested upon it, mounted from it, entreated you to step under the
trees, wander among growing tender things, bathed all in a dew and
glister. And called to you to come and loiter,—and mark the passage
of Aurora and her maidens, hours ago.
“It's just a trifle odd to be swept off one's feet in this whoop-and-
begone-with-you manner,” Ruth, with half a laugh, half a sob,
commented. “Maugre the thing's to be sooner rather than later,
Lucilla, I can't see though why my going should mean yours, too!”
“Dear infant,” Lucilla answered, tenderly, “don't worry.... Whatever
should Ponty and myself do here alone? We'd get on one another's
nerves in a week and part in a temper. Since things have happened
as they have, things are better as they are; leave them to hammer
out their own salvation. Things, I find, are very like the little sheep in
Mother Goose. You let them alone and they come home, wagging
their tails behind them.... But oh, oh, oh,” sighed Lucilla, “how I
adore this! How I would stay here forever! It is a blow,” her voice
was vibrant of regret.... “But, of course, Harry's right, he's always
right. Shall we obey orders?”
“Y—es,” said Ruth. She felt a tightening at her heart, a sudden
lump in her throat. The glory of the October morning had all at once
departed.... A decided glamour enveloped the project of a visit to
her uncle. Moreover, her heart drew her to him. The fine sense of an
affront she must fly from had, too, gathered strength in the night;
the indignity put upon her by Bertram's letter she must resent. Her
pride protested fiercely, she must retaliate even though Ponty should
express to Bertram her thanks with refusal of the honour conferred
upon her. But now these emotions were quelled by an unspeakable
depression, a loneliness, a sense of isolation, of dread, a dread of
the Unknown.... The dread swept her off her feet. Dread of
something more, too.... How was she,—how was she, Ruth Adgate,
—to live away from these two people? To-morrow would mark the
beginning of an ocean rolled up between her old life and the new
one she would be journeying towards. To-morrow! to-morrow! To-
morrow would see the end, for how many, many dreary months, of
this beauty laden, gracious existence; the camaraderie of these two
people whom she had reason to love best in the world, at whose
side she had grown up,—Lucilla and Henry Pontycroft, whom she
understood, who understood her! Instinctively, she felt she was
electing for herself a grimmer fate, a sterner life and land, than any
she had known, could dimly divine....
Yes, the glory of the April morning had departed into chill and
nothingness. It might have already been December though it was
only October, and Pontycroft had gone to buy her ticket. The first,
the irremediable step was taken. She must put the best face she
could upon this adventure of her choice.
Lucilla, to whom Ruth and her thoughts were transparent as flies
in amber, put her arms about her neck.
“Ruth,” she whispered, “it's because he can't bear the parting, the
thought of it. It's going to be a horrible break for him. What we'll
either of us do when you're no longer within reach, when you are no
longer part of our daily life, I can't imagine. I can't imagine any of it
without you, and neither of us will want this, without you.”
Ruth's eyes glowed. Bending forward she kissed Lucilla, and they
marched away, arm-inarm, to do their packing.

VII
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” sighed Juliet.
But the girl of fourteen saw in the act an excuse for endless
impassioned kisses. The world-worn poet Haraucourt better
understood the disastrous effect of saying good-bye.
“Partir” he cries, “c'est mourir un feu!”
“To leave, to part, is to die a little.” Unless, indeed, death be a
more desirable state than life,—as who in this world can possibly
affirm, or deny,—except our Holy Mother Church?—It were safer
then, never to leave, never to part. This is perhaps the true course
of wisdom, to live in the same spot, content with the same people.
They, after all, are sure to be exceedingly like the people one will
find elsewhere; and, ten to one, prove to be verily rather nicer, as
experience is apt to show. Yet Juliet and Haraucourt are agreed
upon one point; parting, whether to the accompaniment of kisses or
of death, a little,—parting is a sorrow.
The parting of their ways, to the three occupants of Villa Santa
Cecilia, was poignant. To each, after his kind the next twenty-four
hours were inexpressibly distressing. Ponty got through them
stoically and worked off some of his feelings in an unconscionable
and conscienceless number of cigarettes. Lucilla wept and prayed.
Ruth said very little and directed her packing in a suffocation of
heartache.
As the train passed out from the station at Florence, bearing her
with Pontycroft towards Genoa, Ruth's tears gushed like fountains of
water. Nor did she in the least try to conceal her distress from Ponty
who sat quietly regarding the landscape from the other side of the
compartment. It had been arranged that he should return for Lucilla,
thus giving to that lady a welcome day's grace, when Ruth had been
safely handed over to the Bolingbrokes, friends of Lucilla, a young
Secretary from the British Embassy in Rome and his bride, on their
way out, to Washington. Their names Ponty had, with relief,
discovered among the list, at Humbert's of the ship's passengers.
The varied, finished, complex Tuscan landscape passed all
leisurely before their eyes; the olive groves, the orange-pink willows;
the white streams romping under grey arches; the villages, the
mediaeval cytties, scattered by the way, the rose-coloured or white
monasteries and villas on the sun-decked hillsides. From the little old
churches and campaniles of the plain, from the convents perched far
above them, innumerable silvery peals of chimes came floating, in
tune, out of tune, it mattered not. As a matter of fact, they were
shockingly out of tune; the quality of the Tuscan air is, however, so
extraordinary an embellisher of sound as well as of scene, that all
sounds become harmonious, even as every scene arranges itself into
a primitive picture, thanks to this most beautifying of mediums.
“How can I leave it, how can I leave it?” Ruth was saying to
herself.
 “You know, I think I'm a goose,” she let fall at last, smiling at
Pontycroft through her tears.
“My sweet child,” said Pontycroft, “we must aye live and learn!
And you're so young that living and learning may still be supposed to
hold elements of interest. There's a lot ahead of you that's new and
strange, so dry your pretty eyes, and Sursum Corda.”
“My soul misgives me that the new and strange will contain
nothing approaching to this,” Ruth said, nodding her head towards
the window. “And I don't think I shall like doing without it,” she
added plaintively.
“God's country,” said Pontycroft, “won't look like this, to be sure,
nor give you a single blessed one of these fine emotions, these
raptures. But after all, it's the first wrench that costs, says the
prophet, and since we're not here entirely, he assures us, to amuse
ourselves, a visit to God's country may prove a salutary if bitter pill
to a young lady surfeited with the sweets of Europe.”
“Dio mio,” Ruth cried, “since when has Pontycroft turned
moralist?”
“From the hour he was made to realise the fatal effects of reckless
paradox,” Ponty answered, with mock solemnity.
They fell to chaffing one another as naturally as possible and the
time flew.
“Genoa la Suferba, Genoa la Suferba! How perfectly, how radiantly
the word describes her fits her,” murmured Ruth when, after a
succession of tunnels, in the early afternoon, the sumptuous town
burst upon them. The dazzling town, her flashing panoply of
palaces, villas, gardens, churches, mounting up, and up—her hill,
leaning firmly against the background of blue skies, blue as the
Virgin Mary's robe.
“The imagination, the purpose, in those lines of architecture,
those formal gardens!” cried Ruth. “How daring, uncompromising,
beauty is in this land of Italy. And see, the Mediterranean, all sparkle
and laughter there at her feet!” She leaned forward; then fell back
against the cushions, savouring with heart as well as eyes the
brilliant vision.
The train hammered heavily into the station.
“Ge—no—a! Ge—no—a!” The nasal cry reverberated through the
glass-covered dome. There was noisy confusion of opening carriage
doors, of passengers descending, calling, embracing, greeting; of
porters running hither and yon; of trucks of luggage blocking the
way amid a commotion of officialdom.
Ruth stood quietly in the uproar, and gazed upon it, and at Ponty's
lank figure, while he dealt with the business of the occasion. Her
heart was beating tumultuously. She felt a violent impulse to run
away and hide herself.
“The beginning of the end,” she cried. “It is the beginning of the
end. Why have I done this?”
A moment later she had shaken hands with the Bolingbrokes; she
was saying good-bye to Pontycroft from the window of the carriage
which was to take her, with her new acquaintances, to the ship.
Ruth's sympathetic Italian maid, waiting and watching in the
background, in a hack laden with luggage, murmured to herself:
“Pover a, Poverella!”

VIII
Ruth, in a misery of wild light-headedness, responded as well as
she could to the civilities of her two travelling companions, while
they drove through narrow, animated streets. They reached the
docks. There lay the massive ship, its relentless black hulk resting
abroadside, in ominous expectation of some mysterious coming
change. Ruth walked up the white gangway. The turmoil, the excited
crowd, the stolid stewards,—lolling,—indifferent yet curious
sentinels,—the ragged throng of emigrants passing endlessly into
the forecastle, the noise of clanking wains and girders hoisting
trunks and freight into mid air, all, gave to her a sense of doom, of
the finality of things in chaos.... Half an hour passed before she was
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