A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

16 A. MERRITT’S FANTASY round, his fatigue now all forgotten, walked close behind him toward the ob- ject of this long, exhausting pilgrimage. CHAPTER 3 Il Vecchio and Stasia HE path, neatly sanded, led, with many a turn and twist, in the gen- eral direction of the sea. Excited as the doctor was, he nevertheless per- ceived the unusual beauty of the estate. Cypresses, palms, fruit-trees, and strange exotics grew in profusion—some with flame-hued blossoms, others crowned with yellow or with purple splendor. On either side well-kept lawns extended. Through the greenery sparkled a foun- tain, and far beyond, blue as turquoise, glinted a stretch of the wondrous inland Without a word of comment or of in- formation, the Lombard guided Denni- son toward a long, low, red-tiled dwelling © which now became visible through the clumps of cedar _and old olive. Presently he stopped to speak with an aged man whom the American took to be a garden- er. Casually observing, in his keen impa- trience to stand at once before Pagani, Dr. Dennison beheld a tall, somewhat stooping figure clad in the long, blue smock used commonly by French peasants. This old man wore on his hoary head a beret of white felt, very large and full, with a little tassel at the crown. His gray-stockinged feet were thrust into sabots. From under the smock projected loose corduroy trousers. A red sash com- pleted the costume. Even as the Lombard spoke to him he continued industriously digging round a rose-bush with a clumsy, old-fashioned spade. Dennison saw him nod, observed the long, white beard move in speech a moment then beheld him turn and gaze as though in careful contemplation of the newcomer. Flushing with sudden ire, now accentu- ated by long fatigue and gnawing fears, the American stepped forward. “Come, come!’ he exclaimed, “I’ve got no time to waste like this. Where's your master? Take me to your master at once. Do you understand ?” The Lombard stared in sudden aston- ishment. He made as though to speak. But the gardener, raising a hand, mildly inquired in almost faultless English: “‘Master? What word is that, sir? We do not understand it here. Inside our gates, so long as we all keep good faith, there is no servant and no master. We live, here, that we may serve.” Dennison stared with growing irrita- tion. - “Why, who the deuce are you, any- how °” he cried. He swung about to his guide. ‘Say!’ he snapped. “I haven't come four thousand miles to bandy words like this. Dr. Pagani—take me to him at once.” “But, m’sieur,” began the Lombard. The patriarch, however, gestured for si- lence. “Here is the doctor now!” nounced. Dennison turned and peered all about him, squinting in the hot sunlight. His trembling fingers gripped the handle of the bag. Burning with rage, he faced back in. Were these yokels mocking him? “The doctor?” he cried. “Where ?”’ “Come, now, do you really want to see him ?” smiled the aged man. With .a sniff the American glared at him. “If you should come face to face with him, would you deign to grasp his hand ?” continued the gardener in a sort of amused tolerance. Dennison tried to bring words to utter- ance but failed. “Well, give me your hand, my son, friend of my friend!’’ exclaimed the patri- arch. He straightened up to his full height —a tall broad-shouldered, and imposing figure of a man, noble of chest and loins, with a strong-corded throat visible through the open folds of the smock. And, standing thus, he stretched out a large, strong palm by no means guiltless of con- tact with the soil. he an- R a moment Dennison stood amazed and speechless, all sorts of conflicting thoughts assailing him. Then cried he: “You—you mean—” _ The old man bowed his head in affirma- tion. “Yes,” he replied, smiling. “I am Pa- (C(O) nn) (C 6)(0)©) <S (C(O)