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The priest has crusaded against her, and stones have flown at her as she went by from dissatisfied lovers; and the very children, paddling in the sea and making mud-pies in the sand, have put out forefinger and little finger and screamed, "Witch, witch! ugly witch!" as she passed with basket or brick load; but Dionea has only smiled, that snake-like, amused smile, but more ominous than of yore.
We went up to the cliffs together, after some sharp words, Waldemar's wife hanging on my arm as we slowly clambered up the stony path among the olives. We found Dionea at the door of her hut, making faggots of myrtle-branches. She listened sullenly to Gertrude's offer and explanations; indifferently to my admonitions not to accept.
Had you seen Dionea, and the stolid, contemptuous way in which she took, without attempting to refute, the various shocking allegations against her, your Excellency would have reflected, as I did, that the door in question must have been accidentally absent from the premises, perhaps at the joiner's for repair, the day that your protegee first penetrated into the convent. Poor little child!
In the convent garden I found Dionea, standing by the side of a big basket of roses, one of the white pigeons perched on her shoulder. "So," she said, "he has killed himself with charcoal, poor Padre Domenico!" Something in her tone, her eyes, shocked me. "God has called to Himself one of His most faithful servants," I said gravely.
You ask me how poor Dionea is getting on. A maker of philters. Roughly speaking, that is Dionea's profession. You think our peasants are skeptical? Perhaps they do not believe in thought-reading, mesmerism, and ghosts, like you, dear Lady Evelyn. But they believe very firmly in the evil eye, in magic, and in love-potions.
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