At the foot of the wall, along its whole length, ran a low marble conduit that held still the sweetest liveliest water.
Lilies of the valley grew beside it, breathing scent into the shadowed air; while on the outer or garden side of the path, the grass was purple with long-stalked violets, or pink with the sharp heads of the cyclamen.

And a little further, from the same grass, there shot up in a happy neglect, tall camellia-trees ragged and laden, strewing the ground red and white beneath them.

And above the camellias again, the famous stone-pines of the villa climbed into the high air, overlooking the plain and the sea, peering at Rome and Soracte.
So old it was!--and yet so fresh with spring! In the mornings at least the spring was uppermost.

It silenced the plaint of outraged beauty which the place seemed to be always making, under a flutter of growth and song.

Water and flowers and nightingales, the shadow, the sunlight, and the heat, were all alike strong and living,--Italy untamed.