The air blew fresh and cool now with a certain
mountain sharpness; for, as Alan assured her with pride, they stood
seventeen hundred feet above the level of the Mediterranean. The
moon had risen; the sunset glow had not yet died off the slopes of
the Assisi hill-sides. It streamed through the perforated belfry
of San Domenico; it steeped in rose-color the slender and turreted
shaft of San Pietro, "Perugia's Pennon," the Arrowhead of Umbria.
It gilded the gaunt houses that jut out upon the spine of the Borgo
hill into the valley of the Tiber. Beyond, rose shadowy Apennines,
on whose aerial flanks towns and villages shone out clear in the
mellow moonlight. Far away on their peaks faint specks of
twinkling fire marked indistinguishable sites of high hill-top
castles.
Alan turned to her proudly. "Well, what do you think of that?" he
asked with truly personal interest.
Herminia could only gasp out in a half reluctant way, "It's a
beautiful view, Alan. Beautiful; beautiful; beautiful!"
But she felt conscious to herself it owed its beauty in the main
to the fact that the twilight obscured so much of it.
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