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Student Name: __________________
Class and Section __________________
Total Points (10 pts) __________________
Due: September 8, 2010 before the class

Project: The Circle2D Class

CSCI 1302 Advanced Programming Principles
Armstrong Atlantic State University

Problem Description:
Define the Circle2D class that contains:
• Two double data fields named x and y that specify the
center of the circle with get methods.
• A data field radius with a get method.
• A no-arg constructor that creates a default circle
with (0, 0) for (x, y) and 1 for radius.
• A constructor that creates a circle with the specified
x, y, and radius.
• A method getArea() that returns the area of the
circle.
• A method getPerimeter() that returns the perimeter of
the circle.
• A method contains(double x, double y) that returns
true if the specified point (x, y) is inside this
circle. See Figure 10.14(a).
• A method contains(Circle2D circle) that returns true
if the specified circle is inside this circle. See
Figure 10.14(b).
• A method overlaps(Circle2D circle) that returns true
if the specified circle overlaps with this circle. See
the figure below.

(a) (b) (c)

Figure
(a) A point is inside the circle. (b) A circle is
inside another circle. (c) A circle overlaps another
circle.

Draw the UML diagram for the class. Implement the

class. Write a test program that creates a Circle2D
object c1 (new Circle2D(2, 2, 5.5)), displays its area
1
 and perimeter, and displays the result of
c1.contains(3, 3), c1.contains(new Circle2D(4, 5,
10.5)), and c1.overlaps(new Circle2D(3, 5, 2.3)).

Design:
Draw the UML class diagram here

Circle2D

Coding: (Copy and Paste Source Code here. Format your code using Courier 10pts)

public class Exercise10_11 {

public static void main(String[] args) {
Circle2D c1 = new Circle2D(2, 2, 5.5);
System.out.println("Area is " + c1.getArea());
System.out.println("Perimeter is " + c1.getPerimeter());
System.out.println(c1.contains(3, 3));
System.out.println(c1.contains(new Circle2D(4, 5, 10.5)));
System.out.println(c1.overlaps(new Circle2D(3, 5, 2.3)));
}
}

class Circle2D {
// Implement your class here
}

2
Submit the following items:

1. Print this Word file and Submit to me before the class on the due day.

2. Compile, Run, and Submit to LiveLab (you must submit the program regardless
whether it complete or incomplete, correct or incorrect)

3
Solution Code:

public class Exercise10_11 {

public static void main(String[] args) {
Circle2D c1 = new Circle2D(2, 2, 5.5);
System.out.println("Area is " + c1.getArea());
System.out.println("Perimeter is " + c1.getPerimeter());
System.out.println(c1.contains(3, 3));
System.out.println(c1.contains(new Circle2D(4, 5, 10.5)));
System.out.println(c1.overlaps(new Circle2D(3, 5, 2.3)));
}
}

class Circle2D {
private double x, y;
private double radius;

public Circle2D() {
x = 0;
y = 0;
radius = 1;
}

public Circle2D(double x, double y, double radius) {

this.x = x;
this.y = y;
this.radius = radius;
}

public double getX() {

return x;
}

public void setX(double x) {

this.x = x;
}

public double getY() {

return y;
}

public void setY(double y) {

this.y = y;
}

public double getRadius() {

return radius;
}

public void setRadius(double radius) {

this.radius = radius;
}

public double getPerimeter() {

return 2 * radius * Math.PI;
}

public double getArea() {

4
 return radius * radius * Math.PI;
}

public boolean contains(double x, double y) {

// MyPoint is defined in Exercise9_4
double d = distance(x, y, this.x, this.y) ;
return d <= radius;
}

public boolean contains(Circle2D circle) {

return contains(circle.x - circle.radius, circle.y) &&
contains(circle.x + circle.radius, circle.y) &&
contains(circle.x, circle.y - circle.radius) &&
contains(circle.x, circle.y + circle.radius);
}

public boolean overlaps(Circle2D circle) {

// Two circles overlap if the distance between the two centers
// are less than or equal to this.radius + circle.radius
// MyPoint is defined in Exercise9_4
return distance(this.x, this.y, circle.x, circle.y)
<= radius + circle.radius;
}

private static double distance(double x1, double y1,

double x2, double y2) {
return Math.sqrt((x1 - x2) * (x1 - x2) + (y1 - y2) * (y1 - y2));
}
}

5
Other documents randomly have
different content
rested on Generosa, there was such an agony in them that she
herself was startled by it.
'Who would ever have dreamt that he would have cared so
much?' she thought. 'But he was always a tender soul; he always
pitied the birds in the traps, and the oxen that went to the
slaughter.'
Reproved, and censured without stint, for the president knew
that to insult a priest was to merit promotion in high quarters, Don
Gesualdo was at last permitted to escape from his place of torture.
Blind and sick he got away through the crowd, past the officials,
down the stairs, and out into the hot air. The piazza was thronged
with people who could not find standing room in the Court-house.
The murmur of their rapid and loud voices was like the noise of a
sea on his ears; they had all the same burden. They all repeated like
one man the same words: 'They will condemn her,' and then
wondered what sentence she would receive; whether a score of
years of seclusion or a lifetime.
He went through the chattering, curious cruel throng, barbarous
with that barbarity of the populace, which in all countries sees with
glee a bull die, a wrestler drop, a malefactor ascend the scaffold, or
a rat scour the streets soaked in petroleum and burning alive. The
dead man had been nothing to them, and his wife had done none of
them any harm, yet there was not a man or a woman, a youth or a
girl in the crowd, who would not have felt that he or she was
defrauded of his entertainment if she were acquitted by her judges,
although there was a general sense amongst them that she had
done no more than had been natural, and no more than had been
her right.
 The dark, slender, emaciated figure of the priest glided through
the excited and boisterous groups; the air had the heat of summer;
the sky above was blue and cloudless; the brown brick walls of
church and palace seemed baking in the light of the sun. In the
corner of the square was a fountain relic of the old times when the
town had been a place of pageantry and power; beautiful pale green
water, cold and fresh, leaping and flowing around marble dolphins.
Don Gesualdo stooped and drank thirstily, as though he would never
cease to drink, then went on his way and pushed aside the leathern
curtain of the cathedral door and entered into the coolness and
solitude of that place of refuge.
There he stretched himself before the cross in prayer, and wept
bitter, burning, unavailing tears for the burden which he bore of
another's sin and his own helplessness beneath it, which seemed to
him like a greater crime.
But even at the very altar of his God, peace was denied him.
Hurried, loud, impetuous steps from heavy boots fell on the old,
worn, marble floor of the church, and Falko Melegari strode up
behind him and laid a heavy hand upon his shoulders. The young
man's face was deeply flushed, his eyes were savage, his breath was
quick and uneven; he had no heed for the sanctity of the place or of
his companion.
'Get up and hear me,' he said, roughly. 'They all say the verdict
will be against her; you heard them.'
Don Gesualdo made a gesture of assent.
'Very well, then,' said the steward, through his clenched teeth, 'if
it be so, indeed, I swear, as you and I live, that I will denounce you
to the judges in her stead.'
Don Gesualdo did not speak. He stood in a meditative attitude
with his arms folded on his chest. He did not express either surprise
or indignation.
 'I will denounce you,' repeated Melegari, made more furious by
his silence. 'What did you do at night with your spade under the
Grand Duke's poplars? Why did you carry in and screen the corpse?
Does not the whole village talk of your strange ways and your
altered habits? There is more than enough against you to send to
the galleys a score of better men than you. Anyhow, I will denounce
you if you do not make a clean breast of all you know to the
president to-morrow. You are either the assassin or the accomplice,
you accursed, black-coated hypocrite!'
A slight flush rose on the waxen pallor of Don Gesualdo's face,
but he still kept silence.
The young man, watching him with eyes of hatred, saw guilt in
that obstinate and mulish dumbness.
'You dare not deny it, trained liar though you be!' he said, with
passionate scorn. 'Oh, wretched cur, who ventures to call yourself a
servitor of heaven, you would let her drag all her years out in misery
to save your own miserable, puling, sexless, worthless life! Well!
hear me and understand. No one can say that I do not keep my
word, and here, by the cross which hangs above us, I take my oath
that if you do not tell all you know to-morrow, should she be
condemned, I will denounce you to the law, and if the law fail to do
justice, I will kill you as Tasso Tassilo was killed. May I die childless,
penniless, and accursed if my hand fail!'
Then, with no other word, he strode from the church, the golden
afternoon sunshine streaming through the stained windows above
and falling on his fair hair, his flushed face, his flaming eyes, till his
common humanity seemed all transfigured. He looked like the
avenging angel of Tintoretto's Paradise.
Don Gesualdo stood immovable in the deserted church; his arms
crossed on his breast, his head bent. A great resolve, a mighty
inspiration, had descended on him with the furious words of his foe.
Light had come to him as from heaven itself. He could not give up
the secret which had been confided to him in the confessional, but
he could give up himself. His brain was filled with legends of sacrifice
and martyrdom. Why might he not become one of that holy band of
martyrs?
Nay, he was too humble to place himself beside them even in
thought. The utmost he could do, he knew, would be only expiation
for what seemed to him his ineffaceable sin in letting any human
affection, however harmless, unselfish, and distant, stain the
singleness and purity of his devotion to his vows. He had been but a
fisher-boy, until he had taken his tender heart and his ignorant mind
to the seminary, and he had been born with the soul of a San Rocco,
of a S. John, out of place, out of time, in the world he lived in; a soul
in which the passions of faith and of sacrifice were as strong as are
the passions of lust and of selfishness in other natures. The spiritual
world was to him a reality, and the earth, with its merciless and
greedy peoples, its plague of lusts, its suffering hearts, its endless
injustice, an unreal and hideous dream.
To his temper, the sacrifice which suddenly rose before him as
his duty, appeared one which would reconcile him at once to the
Deity he had offended, and the humanity he was tempted to betray.
To his mind, enfeebled and exhausted by long fasting of the body
and denial of every natural indulgence, such sacrifice of self seemed
an imperious command from heaven. He would drag out his own life
in misery, and obloquy, indeed, but what of that? Had not the great
martyrs and founders of his Church endured as much or more? Was
it not by such torture, voluntarily accepted and endured on earth,
that the grace of God was won?
He would tell a lie, indeed; he would draw down ignominy on the
name of the Church; he would make men believe that an anointed
priest was a common murderer, swayed by low and jealous hatreds;
but of this he did not think. In the tension and perplexity of his
tortured soul, the vision of a sacrifice in which he would be the only
sufferer, in which the woman would be saved, and the secret told to
him be preserved, appeared as a heaven-sent solution of the doubts
and difficulties in his path. Stretched in agonised prayer before one
of the side altars of the cathedral, he imagined the afternoon
sunbeams streaming through the high window on his face to be the
light of a celestial world, and in the hush and heat of the incense-
scented air, he believed that he heard a voice which cried to him, 'By
suffering all things are made pure.'
He was not a wise, or strong, or educated man. He had the
heart of a poet, and the mind of a child. There was a courage in him
to which sacrifice was welcome, and there was a credulity in him
which made all exaggeration of simple faith possible. He was young
and ignorant and weak; yet at the core of his heart there was a dim
heroism: he could suffer and be mute, and in the depths of his heart
he loved this woman better than himself, with a love which in his
belief made him accursed for all time.
When he at last arose and went out of the church doors, his
mind was made up to the course that he would take; an immense
calm had descended upon the unrest of his soul.
The day was done, the sun had set, the scarlet flame of its
afterglow bathed all the rusty walls and dusty ground with colours of
glory. The crowd had dispersed; there was no sound in the deserted
square except the ripple of the water as it fell from the dolphins'
mouths into the marble basin. As he heard that sweet, familiar
murmur of the falling stream, the tears rose in his eyes and blotted
out the flame-like pomp and beauty of the skies. Never again would
he hear the water of the Marca river rushing, in cool autumn days,
past the poplar stems and the primrose roots upon its mossy banks;
never again would he hear in the place of his birth the grey-green
waves of Arno sweeping through the cane-brakes to the sea.
At three of the clock on the following day the judgment was
given in the court.
Generosa Fè was decreed guilty of the murder of her husband,
and sentenced to twenty years of solitary confinement. She dropped
like a stone when she heard the sentence, and was carried out from
the court insensible. Her lover, when he heard it, gave a roar of
anguish like that of some great beast in torment, and dashed his
head against the wall and struggled like a mad bull in the hands of
the men who tried to hold him. Don Gesualdo, waiting without, on
the head of the staircase, did not even change countenance; to him
this bitterness, as of the bitterness of death, had been long past; he
had been long certain what the verdict would be, and he had, many
hours before, resolved on his own part.
A great calm had come upon his soul, and his face had that
tranquillity which comes alone from a soul which is at peace within
itself.
The sultry afternoon shed its yellow light on the brown and grey
and dusty town; the crowd poured out of the Court-house, excited,
contrite, voluble, pushing and bawling at one another, ready to take
the side of the condemned creature now that she was the victim of
the law. The priest alone of them all did not move; he remained
sitting on the upright chair under a sculptured allegory of Justice and
Equity which was on the arch above his head, and with the golden
light of sunset falling down on him through the high casement
above. He paid no heed to the hurrying of the crowd, to the tramp
of guards, to the haste of clerks and officials eager to finish their
day's work and get away to their wine and dominoes at the taverns.
His hands mechanically held his breviary; his lips mechanically
repeated a Latin formula of prayer. When all the people were gone,
one of the custodians of the place touched his arm, telling him that
they were about to close the doors; he raised his eyes like one who
is wakened from a trance, and to the man said quietly:
'I would see the president of the court for a moment, quite
alone. Is it possible?'
After many demurs and much delay, they brought him into the
presence of the judge, in a small chamber of the great palace.
'What do you want with me?' asked the judge, looking nervously
at the white face and the wild eyes of his unbidden visitant.
 Don Gesualdo answered: 'I am come to tell you that you have
condemned an innocent woman.'
The judge looked at him with sardonic derision and contempt.
'What more?' he asked. 'If she be innocent, will you tell me who
is guilty?'
'I am,' replied the priest.
At his trial he never spoke.
With his head bowed and his hands clasped, he stood in the
cage where she had stood, and never replied by any single word to
the repeated interrogations of his judges. Many witnesses were
called, and all they said testified to the apparent truth of his self-
accusation. Those who had always vaguely suspected him, all those
who had seen him close the door of the sacristy on the crowd when
he had borne the murdered man within, the mule drivers who had
seen him digging at night under the great poplars, the sacristan who
had been awakened by him that same night so early, even his old
housekeeper, though she swore that he was a lamb, a saint, an
angel, a creature too good for earth, a holy man whose mind was
distraught by fasting, by visions, these all, either wilfully or
ignorantly, bore witness which confirmed his own confession. The
men of law had the mould and grass dug up under the Grand Duke's
poplar, and when the blood-stained knife was found therein, the very
earth, it seemed, yielded up testimony against him.
In the end, after many weeks of investigation, Generosa was
released and Don Gesualdo was sentenced in her place.
Falko Melegari married her, and they went to live in his own
country in the Lombard plains, and were happy and prosperous, and
the village of Marca and the waters of its cane-shadowed stream
knew them no more.
Sometimes she would say to her husband: 'I cannot think that
he was guilty; there was some mystery in it.'
 Her husband always laughed, and said in answer: 'He was guilty,
be sure; it was I who frightened him into confession; those black
rats of the Church have livers as white as their coats are black.'
Generosa did not wholly believe, but she thrust the grain of
doubt and of remorse away from her and played with her handsome
children. After all, she mused, what doubt could there be? Did not
Don Gesualdo himself reveal his guilt, and had he not always cared
for her, and was not the whole population of Marca willing to bear
witness that they had always suspected him and had only held their
peace out of respect for the Church?
He himself lived two long years amongst the galley-slaves of the
western coast; all that time he never spoke, and he was considered
by the authorities to be insane. Then, in the damp and cold of the
third winter, his lungs decayed, his frail strength gave way, he died
of what they called tuberculosis, in the spring of the year. In his last
moments there was seen a light of unspeakable ecstasy upon his
face, a smile of unspeakable rapture on his mouth.
'Domine Deus libera me!' he murmured, as he died.
A bird came and sang at the narrow casement of his prison cell
as his spirit passed away. It was a nightingale: perchance one of
those who had once sung to him in the summer nights from the
wild-rose hedge at Marca.
THE SILVER CHRIST
 I
Genistrello is a wild place in the Pistoiese hills.
Its name is derived from the genista or broom which covers
many an acre of the soil, and shares with the stone pine and the
sweet chestnut the scanty earth which covers its granite and
sandstone. It is beautiful exceedingly; but its beauty is only seen by
those to whom it is a dead letter which they have no eyes to read. It
is one of the many spurs of the Apennines which here lie
overlapping one another in curve upon curve of wooded slopes with
the higher mountains rising behind them; palaces, which once were
fortresses, hidden in their valleys, and ruined castles, or deserted
monasteries, crowning their crests.
From some of these green hills the sea is visible, and when the
sun sets where the sea is and the red evening glows behind the
distant peaks, it is lovely as a poet's dream.
On the side of this lonely hill, known as Genistrello, there dwelt a
man of the name of Castruccio Lascarisi. He was called 'Caris' by the
whole countryside; indeed, scarcely any knew that he had another
patronymic, so entirely amongst these people does the nickname
extinguish, by its perpetual use, the longer appellative.
His family name was of Greek extraction undoubtedly; learned
Greeks made it familiar in the Italian Renaissance, at the courts of
Lorenzo and of Ludovico; but how it had travelled to the Pistoiese
hills to be borne by unlearned hinds none knew, any more than any
know who first made the red tulip blossom as a wild flower amidst
the wheat, or who first sowed the bulb of the narcissus amongst the
wayside grass.
He lived miles away from the chapel and the hamlet. He had a
little cabin in the heart of the chestnut woods, which his forefathers
had lived in before him; they had no title which they could have
shown for it except usage, but that had been title enough for them,
and was enough for Caris.
It had been always so. It would be always so. His ideas went no
further. The autumnal migration was as natural and inevitable to him
as to the storks and herons and wild duck which used to sail over his
head, going southward like himself as he walked through the Tuscan
to the Roman Maremma. But his dislike to the Maremma winters was
great, and had never changed in him since he had trotted by his
father's side, a curly-pated baby in a little goatskin shirt looking like
a Correggio's St. John.
What he longed for, and what he loved, were the cool heights of
Genistrello and the stone hut with the little rivulet of water gushing
at its threshold. No one had ever disturbed his people there. It was a
square little place built of big unmortared stones in old Etruscan
fashion; the smoke from the hearth went out by a hole in the roof,
and a shutter and door of unplaned wood closed its only apertures.
The lichen and weeds and mosses had welded the stones
together, and climbed up over its conical rush roof. No better home
could be needed in summer-time; and when the cold weather came,
he locked the door and went down with his pack on his back and a
goatshair belt round his loins to take the familiar way to the Roman
Maremma.
Caris was six-and-twenty years old; he worked amongst the
chestnut woods in summer and went to the Maremma for field
labour in the winter, as so many of these husbandmen do; walking
the many leagues which separate the provinces, and living hardly in
both seasons. The songs they sing are full of allusions to this semi-
nomadic life, and the annual migration has been a custom ever since
the world was young—when the great Roman fleets anchored where
now are sand and marsh, and stately classic villas lifted their marble
to the sun where now the only habitation seen is the charcoal-
burner's rush-roofed, moss-lined hut.
 Caris was a well-built, lithe, slender son of the soil, brown from
sun and wind, with the straight features and the broad low brows of
the classic type, and great brown eyes like those of the oxen which
he drove over the vast plains down in the Maremma solitudes. He
knew nothing except his work.
He was not very wise, and he was wholly unlearned, but he had
a love of nature in his breast, and he would sit at the door of his hut
at evening time, with his bowl of bean-soup between his knees, and
often forget to eat in his absorbed delight as the roseate glow from
the vanished sunrays overspread all the slopes of the Pistoiese
Apennines and the snow-crowned crests of the Carara mountains.
'What do you see there, goose?' said a charcoal-burner, once
passing him as he sat thus upon his threshold with the dog at his
feet.
Caris shrugged his shoulders stupidly and half-ashamed. He
could not read the great book outspread upon the knees of the
mountains, yet he imperfectly felt the beauty of its emblazoned
pages.
The only furniture in the cabin was a table made of a plank, two
rude benches, and one small cupboard; the bed was only dried
leaves and moss. There were a pipkin, two platters, and a big iron
pot which swung by a cord and a hook over the stones where the
fire, when lighted, burned. They were enough; he would not have
known what to do with more if he had had more. He was only there
from May to October; and in the fragrant summers of Italian
chestnut woods, privation is easily borne. The winter life was harder
and more hateful; yet it never occurred to him to do else than to go
to Maremma; his father and grandfather had always gone thither,
and as naturally as the chestnuts ripen and fall, so do the men in
autumn join the long lines of shepherds and drovers and women and
children and flocks and herds which wind their way down the
mountain slopes and across the level wastes of plain and marsh to
seek herbage and work for the winter-time.
 It never entered the head of Caris, or of the few who knew him
or worked with him, to wonder how he and his had come thither.
They were there as the chestnut-trees were, as the broom was, as
the goats and squirrels and wood-birds were there. The peasant no
more wonders about his own existence than a stone does. For
generations a Lascaris had lived in that old stone hut which might
itself be a relic of an Etruscan tomb or temple. No one was
concerned to know further.
The peasant does not look back; he only sees the road to gain
his daily meal of bread or chestnuts. The past has no meaning to
him, and to the future he never looks. That is the reason why those
who want to cultivate or convince him fail utterly. If a man cannot
see the horizon itself, it is of no use to point out to him spires or
trees or towers which stand out against it.
The world has never understood that the moment the labourer is
made to see, he is made unhappy, being ill at ease and morbidly
envious and ashamed, and wholly useless. Left alone, he is content
in his own ruminant manner, as the buffalo is when left untormented
amidst the marshes, grazing at peace and slumbering amidst the
rushes and the canes.
Caris was thus content. He had health and strength, though
sometimes he had a fever-chill from new-turned soil and sometimes
a frost-chill from going out on an empty stomach before the sun had
broken the deep shadows of the night. But from these maladies all
outdoor labourers suffer, and he was young, and they soon passed.
He had been the only son of his mother; and this fact had saved him
from conscription. As if she had lived long enough when she had
rendered him this service, she died just as he had fulfilled his
twenty-third year; and without her the stone hut seemed for awhile
lonely; he had to make his fire, and boil or roast his chestnuts, and
mend holes in his shirts, and make his own rye loaves; but he soon
got used to this, and when in Maremma he always worked with a
gang, and was fed and lodged—badly, indeed, but regularly—at the
huge stone burn which served such purposes on the vast tenuta
where the long lines of husbandmen toiled from dusk of dawn to
dusk of eve under the eye and lash of their overseer; and when on
his native slopes of Genistrello he was always welcome to join the
charcoal-burners' rough company or the woodsmen's scanty supper,
and seldom passed, or had need to pass, his leisure hours alone.
And these were very few.
His mother had been a violent-tempered woman, ruling him with
a rod of iron, as she had ruled her husband before him; a woman
loud of tongue, stern of temper, dreaded for miles around as a witch
and an evil-eye; and although the silence and solitude which reigned
in the cabin after her death oppressed him painfully at first, he soon
grew used to these, and found the comfort of them. He brought a
dog with him after his winter in Maremma which followed on his
mother's loss—a white dog of the Maremma breed, and he and the
dog kept house together in the lonely woods in fellowship and
peace. Caris was gentle and could never beat or kick a beast as
others of his kind do; and the oxen he drove knew this. He felt more
akin to them and to the dogs than he did to the men with whom he
worked. He could not have expressed or explained this, but he felt it.
He had little mind, and what he had moved slowly when it
moved at all; but he had a generous nature, a loyal soul, and a
simple and manly enjoyment of his hard life. It did not seem hard to
him. He had run about on his bare feet all his childhood until their
soles were as hard as leather, and he was so used to his daily meal
of chestnuts in cold weather, and of maize or rye-bread with
cabbage, or bean-soup, in the hot season, that he never thought of
either as meagre fare. In summer he wore rough hempen shirt and
trousers; in winter goatskin and rough homespun wool. In
appearance, in habits, in clothing, in occupation, he differed little
from the peasant who was on that hillside in the times of Pliny and
of Properticus. Only the gods were changed; Pan piped no more in
the thicket, the Naiad laughed no longer in the brook, the Nymph
and Satyr frolicked never beneath the fronds of the ferns.
 In their stead there was only a little gaudy chapel on a stony
slope, and a greasy, double-chinned, yellow-cheeked man in black,
who frowned if you did not give him your hardly-earned pence, and
lick the uneven bricks of the chapel floor when he ordered you a
penance.
Caris cared little for that man's frown.
He sat thus at his door one evening when the sun was setting
behind the many peaks and domes of the Apennine spurs which
fronted him. The sun itself had sunk beyond them half an hour
before, but the red glow which comes and stays long after it was in
the heavens and on the hills.
Genistrello was a solitary place, and only here and there a hut or
cot like his own was hidden away under the saplings and
undergrowth. Far away down in the valley were the belfries and
towers of the little strong-walled city which had been so often as a
lion in the path to the invading hosts of Germany; and like a narrow
white cord the post-road, now so rarely used, wound in and out until
its slender thread was lost in the blue vapours of the distance, and
the shadows from the clouds.
Bells were tolling from all the little spires and towers on the hills
and in the valleys, for it was a vigil, and there was the nearer tinkle
of the goats' bells under the heather and broom as those innocent
marauders cropped their supper off the tender chestnut-shoots, the
trails of ground ivy, and the curling woodbine. Caris, with his bowl of
bean-soup between his knees and his hunch of rye-bread in his
hand, ate hungrily, whilst his eyes filled themselves with the beauty
of the landscape. His stomach was empty—which he knew, and his
soul was empty—which he did not know.
He looked up, and saw a young woman standing in front of him.
She was handsome, with big, bright eyes, and a rosy mouth, and
dusky glossy hair coiled up on her head like a Greek Venus.
He had never seen her before, and her sudden apparition there
startled him.
 'Good-even, Caris,' she said familiarly, with a smile like a burst of
sunlight. 'Is the mother indoors, eh?'
Caris continued to stare at her.
'Eh, are you deaf?' she asked impatiently. 'Is the mother in, I
want to know?'
'My mother is dead,' said Caris, without preamble.
'Dead! When did she die?'
'Half a year ago,' said Caris, with the peasant's confusion of
dates and elongation of time.
'That is impossible,' said the young woman quickly. 'I saw her
myself and spoke with her here on this very spot in Easter week.
What makes you say she is dead?'
'Because she is dead!' said Caris doggedly. 'If you do not believe
it, go and ask the sacristan and sexton over there.'
He made a gesture of his head towards the belfry of an old
hoary church, dedicated to St. Fulvo, which was seven miles away
amongst the chestnut woods of an opposing hillside, and where his
mother had been buried by her wish, because it was her birthplace.
The girl this time believed him. She was dumb for a little while
with astonishment and regret. Then she said, in a tone of awe and
expectation, 'She left her learning and power with you, eh?—and the
books?'
'No,' said Caris rudely. 'I had all the uncanny things buried with
her. What use were they? She lived and died with scarce a shift to
her back.'
'Oh!' said the girl, in a shocked tone, as though she reproved a
blasphemy. 'She was a wonderful woman, Caris.'
Caris laughed a little.
'Eh, you say so. Well, all her wisdom never put bit nor drop in
her mouth nor a copper piece in her hand that I did not work for;
what use was it, pray?'
'Hush. Don't speak so!' said the maiden, looking timidly over her
shoulder to the undergrowth and coppice growing dim in the
shadows of the evening.
'Tis the truth!' said Caris stubbornly. 'I did my duty by her, poor
soul; and yet I fear me the Evil One waited for her all the while, for
as soon as the rattle came in her throat, a white owl flapped and
screeched on the thatch, and a black cat had sat on the stones
yonder ever since the sun had set.'
'The saints preserve us!' murmured the girl, her rich brown and
red skin growing pale.
There was silence; Caris finished munching his bread; he looked
now and then at his visitor with open-eyed surprise and mute
expectation.
'You have buried the things with her?' she asked him, in a low
tone, at length.
He nodded in assent.
'What a pity! What a pity!'
'Why that?'
'Because if they are underground with her nobody can use
them.'
Caris stared with his eyes wider opened still.
'What do you want with the devil's tools, a fresh, fair young
thing like you?'
'Your mother used them for me,' she answered crossly. 'And she
had told me a number of things—ay, a vast number! And just in the
middle uncle spied us out, and he swore at her and dragged me
away, and I had never a chance to get back here till to-night, and
now—now you say she is dead, and she will never tell me aught any
more.'
 'What can you want so sore to know?' said Caris, with wonder,
as he rose to his feet.
'That is my business,' said the girl.
'True, so it is,' said Caris.
But he looked at her with wonder in his dark-brown, ox-like
eyes.
'Where do you live?' he asked; 'and how knew you my name?'
'Everybody knows your name,' she answered. 'You are Caris, the
son of Lisabetta, and when you sit on your doorstep it would be a
fool indeed would not see who you are.'
'So it would,' said Caris. 'But you,' he added after a pause, 'who
are you? And what did you want with Black Magic?'
'I am Santina, the daughter of Neri, the smith, by the west gate
in Pistoia,' she said in reply to the first question, and making none to
the second.
'But what wanted you of my mother?' he persisted.
'They said she knew strange things,' said the girl evasively.
'If she did she had little profit of them,' said Caris sadly.
The girl looked at him with great persuasiveness in her face, and
leaned a little nearer to him.
'You did not really bury the charms with her? You have got them
inside? You will let me see them, eh?'
'As the saints live, I buried them,' said Caris truthfully; 'they
were rubbish, or worse; accursed maybe. They are safe down in the
ground till the Last Day. What can such a bright wench as yourself
want with such queer, unhallowed notions?'
The girl Santina glanced over her shoulders to make sure that no
one was listening; then she said in a whisper:
 'There is the Gobbo's treasure in these woods somewhere—and
Lisabetta had the wand that finds gold and silver.'
Caris burst into a loud laugh.
'Ah, truly! That is a good jest. If she could find gold and silver,
why did we always have iron spoons for our soup, and a gnawing
imp in our stomachs? Go to, my maiden. Do not tell such tales.
Lisabetta was a poor and hungry woman all her days, and scarce left
enough linen to lay her out in decently, so help me Heaven!'
The girl shook her head.
'You know there is the treasure in the woods,' she said angrily.
'Nay, I never heard of it. Oh, the Gobbo's? Che-che! For
hundreds of years they have grubbed for it all over the woods, and
who ever found anything, eh?'
'Your mother was very nigh it often and often. She told me.'
'In her dreams, poor soul!'
'But dreams mean a great deal.'
'Sometimes,' said Caris seriously. 'But what is it to you?' he
added, the suspicion always inherent to the peasant struggling with
his admiration of the girl, who, unbidden, had seated herself upon
the stone before the door. With feminine instinct she felt that to
make him do what she wished, she must confide in him, or appear
to confide.
And thereon she told him that unless she could save herself, her
family would wed her to a wealthy old curmudgeon who was a cart-
maker in the town; and to escape this fate she had interrogated the
stars by means of the dead Lisabetta and of the astrologer Faraone,
who dwelt also in the hills, but this latter reader of destiny would tell
her nothing, because he was a friend of her father's, and now the
witch of Genistrello was dead and had left her fate but half told!
'What did she tell you?' said Caris, wincing at the word witch.
 'Only that I should go over the mountains to some city and grow
rich. But it was all dark—obscure—uncertain; she said she would
know more next time; and how could I tell that before I came again
she would have died?'
'You could not tell that, no,' said Caris absently.
He was thinking of the elderly well-to-do wheelwright in the
town, and he felt that he would have liked to brain him with one of
his own wooden spokes or iron linchpins. For the girl Santina was
very beautiful as she sat there with her large eyes shining in the
shadows and the tears of chagrin and disappointment stealing down
her cheeks. For her faith in her charms and cards had been great,
and in her bosom there smouldered desires and ideas of which she
did not speak.
She saw the effect that her beauty produced, and said to
herself: 'He shall dig up the things before he is a week older.'
She got up with apparent haste and alarm; seeing how dark it
had grown around her, only a faint red light lingering far away above
the lines of the mountains.
'I am staying at the four roads with my aunt, who married
Massaio,' she said as she looked over her shoulder and walked away
between the chestnut sapling and the furze.
Caris did not offer to accompany or try to follow her. He stood
like one bewitched watching her lithe, erect figure run down the hill
and vanish as the path wound out of sight amongst the pines. No
woman had ever moved him thus. He felt as if she had poured into
him at once scalded wine and snow-water.
She was so handsome and bold and lissom, and yet she made
his flesh creep talking of his mother's incantations, and bidding him
knock at the door of the grave.
'What an awful creature for tempting a man is a woman,' he
thought, 'and they will scream at their own shadows one minute and
dare the devil himself the next!'
 That night Caris sat smoking his black pipe on the stone before
the door where she had sat, and the scalded wine and the snow-
water coursed by turns feverishly through his veins, as once through
Cymon's.
 II
'Where hast been, hussy?' said Massaio crossly, yet jokingly, to his
niece when she went home that night.
The four roads was a place where the four cart-tracks at the foot
of that group of hills met and parted; the man was a seller of wood,
and his cottage and his wood-yards and sheds thatched with furze
stood where the four roads met under some huge stone pines. The
aunt of Santina had married there many years before.
They were people well-off, who ate meat, drank wine, and had a
house full of hardware, pottery, and old oak: people as far removed
from Caris and his like as if they had been lords or princes. He knew
them by sight, and doffed his hat to them in the woods.
The thought that she was the niece of Massaio, the man who
paid for his wood and charcoal with rolls of banknotes, and sent his
own mules to bring the loads down from the hills, placed Santina
leagues away from and above him.
The only women with whom he had ever had any intercourse
had been the rude wenches who tramped with the herds, and dug
and hoed and cut grass and grain on the wastes of the Maremma;
creatures burnt black with the sun and wrinkled by the winds, and
with skin hard and hairy, and feet whose soles were like wood—'la
femelle de l'homme,' but not so clean of hide or sweet of breath as
the heifers they drove down along the sea-ways in autumn weather.
This girl who called herself Santina was wholesome as lavender,
fresh as field thyme, richly and fairly odoured as the flower of the
wild pomegranate.
When supper was over and the house was on the point of being
bolted and barred, Santina threw her brown soft round arm round
her uncle's neck.
 'I went down to see Don Fabio, and he was out, and I sat talking
with his woman and forgot the time,' she said penitently.
Don Fabio was the priest of the little gaudy church low down in
the valley where the post-road ran.
Massaio patted the cheek, which was like an apricot, and
believed her.
Her aunt did not.
'There is still snow where the man of God lives up yonder, and
there is no water, only dust, on her shoes,' thought the shrewd
observer.
But she did not say so; for she had no wish to put her husband
out of humour with her kinsfolk.
But to Santina, when with her alone, she said testily:
'I fear you are going again to the black arts of that woman
Lisabetta; no good ever is got of them; it is playing with fire, and the
devil breathes the fire out of his mouth!'
'I cannot play with it if I wished,' said Santina innocently;
'Lisabetta is dead months ago.'
'That is no loss to anybody if it be true,' said Eufemia Massaio
angrily.
Lisabetta had been such an obscure and lonely creature, that
her death had been taken little note of anywhere, and the busy,
bustling housewife of Massaio had had no heed of such an event.
She had not even known the woman by sight; had only been
cognizant of her evil repute for powers of sorcery.
Santina went up to her room, which she shared with three of the
Massaio children. Long after they were sleeping in a tangle of rough
hair and brown limbs and healthy rosy nudity, the girl, their elder, sat
up on the rude couch staring at the moon through the little square
window.
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