She would hold my head between her hands, and sing the songs she never sang at other times, for the Turks, our masters, would not allow it. At times the snow would be piled so high around our hut as almost to hide it, and then my mother appeared most cheerful. How well I can remember every spot in that deep, sacred solitude! A fire had been kindled in the midst of the hut, and while the hot ashes lay there red and glowing, the bread was baked in them. The brook which rolled from it near our house, was also sacred. The spot was one sacred to olden times even its name recalled a memory of the days when it was called "Delphi." Then the summits of the dark, sacred mountains were covered with snow, and the highest, mount Parnassus, glowed longest in the red evening light. Not a singing bird was ever heard there, neither did men dance to the sound of the pipe. The house was situated in a narrow gorge, whose rocky walls rose to a perpendicular height, naked and black, while round their summits clouds often hung, looking like white living figures.
It was at this time dark, brown, and ugly, but had originally been formed of blooming olive and laurel branches, brought from beyond the mountains. The little dwelling in which we lived was of clay, but the door-posts were columns of fluted marble, found near the spot on which it stood.
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