So the shadowy Miriam almost outdid Donatello on his own ground. They
ran races with each other, side by side, with shouts and laughter; they
pelted one another with early flowers, and gathering them up twined
them with green leaves into garlands for both their heads. They played
together like children, or creatures of immortal youth. So much had they
flung aside the sombre habitudes of daily life, that they seemed born
to be sportive forever, and endowed with eternal mirthfulness instead
of any deeper joy. It was a glimpse far backward into Arcadian life, or,
further still, into the Golden Age, before mankind was burdened with
sin and sorrow, and before pleasure had been darkened with those shadows
that bring it into high relief, and make it happiness.
"Hark!" cried Donatello, stopping short, as he was about to bind
Miriam's fair hands with flowers, and lead her along in triumph, "there
is music somewhere in the grove!"
"It is your kinsman, Pan, most likely," said Miriam, "playing on his
pipe. Let us go seek him, and make him puff out his rough cheeks and
pipe his merriest air! Come; the strain of music will guide us onward
like a gayly colored thread of silk."
"Or like a chain of flowers," responded Donatello, drawing her along by
that which he had twined. "This way!--Come!"