he caught miriam's hand, kissed it, and gazed into her eyes without saying a word.she smiled, and bestowed on him a little careless caress, singularly like what one would give to a pet dog when he puts himself in the way to receive it.not that it was so decided a caress either, but only the merest touch, somewhere between a pat and a tap of the finger; it might be a mark of fondness, or perhaps a playful pretence of punishment.at all events, it appeared to afford donatello exquisite pleasure; insomuch that he danced quite round the wooden railing that fences in the dying gladiator.
"it is the very step of the dancing faun," said miriam, apart, to hilda."what a child, or what a simpleton, he is! i continually find myself treating donatello as if he were the merest unfledged chicken; and yet he can claim no such privileges in the right of his tender age, for he is at least--how old should you think him, hilda?""twenty years, perhaps," replied hilda, glancing at donatello; "but, indeed, i cannot tell; hardly so old, on second thoughts, or possibly older.he has nothing to do with time, but has a look of eternal youth in his face.""all underwitted people have that look," said miriam scornfully."donatello has certainly the gift of eternal youth, as hilda suggests,"observed kenyon, laughing; "for, judging by the date of this statue, which, i am more and more convinced, praxiteles carved on purpose for him, he must be at least twenty-five centuries old, and he still looks as young as ever.""what age have you, donatello?"asked miriam.