and smelt her. Then, apparently satisfied, he let her draw near the child, who was sleeping: a lovely creature, half naked, with long black lashes lying on cheeks like mountain rose-leaves, and loose thick curls like rings of amber.
'It is a woman child; so much the worse,' said Joconda, looking down on it.
If it had been a male, it would have been much easier for her; a boy could soon have run about and done something for his daily bread in the boats, or with the mules, or in the firewoods. However, she remembered that, be it what it would, she had promised Mastarna. She looked timorously at the dog, and raised the child without waking it; he looked at her in return, watchfully, but comprehending that she meant it no injury. She saw at the baby's throat a little golden image; then she wrapped her shawl about it, and said to the dog 'Come.'
For the dog was alone, and Joconda was a woman of hard aspect but good heart.
The dog was of the same race as Ulysses' faithful friend, perhaps the purest and most ancient canine race of all in the world, and one of the boldest and most
