Читать книгу The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping - Warwick Deeping - Страница 13
II
ОглавлениеWhen Trevanion found himself on the edge of the chestnut woods he turned and looked back at the blue pool and the yellow villa, as though to assure himself that they were still there.
“The House of the Little Moon,” he said to himself; “The House of Midsummer Madness. And an old gentleman who looks for Pan! And the girl!”
Trevanion had not gone a furlong, when he hesitated, looked about him, and stood still. For a moment he could not tell why he had stopped and why he was standing there. It was as though he had lost something and could not remember what. Yes! He had lost the sound of falling water. There was nothing but silence, and more than silence, a sense of things hidden, a feeling of being watched, of being followed by invisible creatures. He listened, and heard nothing; looked about him and saw only the great trunks of the trees and the path that was spattered with little beams of golden light.
“Idiot!”
He walked on again, but the poet and the mystic in him were holding a debate.
“The spirit of the woods—nothing more. Yes, my friend—but can you deny this strangeness and this mystery? If Pan came skipping down the path? Tut! you are as mad as the old gentleman! Perhaps there is reason in the mythologist’s madness? The truth is you have been drinking red wine, and you are very nearly falling in love. Rosamunda, Rosamunda!”
Presently the path struck the rough track that threaded the wooded country between Monte Verde and Castella Nero. A horse and a mule were coming up the hill, and Trevanion heard the thudding of their hoofs before they swung into view round the edge of a thicket of pines. The horse was black, and the mule white. On the black horse sat a man in a red coat faced with silver. A priest in a brown frock rode the mule.
Trevanion edged aside as though to take cover, thought better of it, and walked on. The man on the black horse was Count Otto von Mirenbach, the Man with the Red Mouth.
These two—the Austrian and the priest—stared hard at Trevanion, and then glanced questioningly at each other.
“The English fool from Monte Verde!”
“What does he do here?”
“Make poetry and tramp everywhere on olives and black bread. These English are quite harmless.”
Otto von Mirenbach was a big man, very handsome in a black and arrogant way, save for that mouth of his that looked like a red gash in his broad face. He was the Austrian tyrant in these parts, and had his home at Castella Nero.
His companion, the priest on the white mule, was a certain Fra Bartolomeo, who had a chapel to serve on the road to Castella Nero. He was a bouncing, black-eyed, juicy rogue, a pimp as to his religion, and fond of a succulent tale.
The Englishman met these two worldlings in a narrow part of the track. He stared hard at von Mirenbach, and made as if to pass on, but the Austrian reined in and put his horse across the path. He was accustomed to men who grovelled before him, and he did not love the English.
“One moment, my friend; not in such a hurry.”
Trevanion stood looking up at him and saying nothing. He did not even pull off his hat.
“You will observe, Fra Tolomeo, what pleasant manners the man has. I believe you are an Englishman, Mr. Black Coat, and that your name is Trevanion. They tell me you speak Italian like a Florentine.”
Trevanion still looked at him steadily.
“My name is what you say it is, and I am an Englishman. How does it concern you?”
Von Mirenbach showed that smile of his.
“Everything concerns me, dear sir. I am the little god in these parts, and if I choose to ask people questions, they answer me. It is my business to know everything that goes on. And if I do not approve of certain people, I have them arrested and deposited on the other side of the frontier.”
Now Trevanion was no fool, and he had the sense to keep his temper.
Von Mirenbach was not boasting, and the Englishman knew it.
“You have the advantage of me,” he said, parrying the Austrian’s insolence by pretending to be ignorant, “but I do not know to whom I am speaking.”
“I happen to be Otto von Mirenbach, the Governor of Castella Nero.”
Trevanion bowed to him with great gravity.
“My ignorance is chastened, sir. In England I may boast myself something of a gentleman. In Italy I am just a traveller and a scholar; I go where I please, with my knapsack on my back.”
Von Mirenbach nodded.
“One has to be so careful in these days, Mr. Trevanion, and my sbirri have a habit of being hasty and rather rough. I have no wish to see harmless people in trouble. You have papers, credentials?”
Trevanion slipped his hand under his coat.
“If you choose to see them, sir, I have letters to the Embassies at Rome, Florence, Naples; also my banker’s letter of credit.”
The Austrian made a deprecating gesture.
“No, no; it is quite unnecessary. I must apologize for stopping you, but it is a habit of mine. I have my responsibilities, Mr. Trevanion. And may I remind you that I have a very passable library at Castella Nero. The books are at your service.”
Trevanion bowed again as von Mirenbach prepared to ride on.
“Your courtesy is appreciated, sir.”
“The English are always welcome, Mr. Trevanion.”
And they parted, disliking each other wholeheartedly, neither of them deceived by the other’s dissembling.
It did not occur to the Englishman that these two worthies were bent upon adventure, and that their faces were set towards the Pool of the Satyr. Fra Tolomeo had drawn his white mule close to the Austrian’s black horse.
“A nymph, sir, a veritable Aphrodite! Pomegranates and milk and peaches! And innocent as a bit of snow from the mountains!”
“And the father is mad, eh?”
“Mad as Nebuchadnezzar. A great scholar in his day, sir; but now he runs about looking for Pan and Bacchus.”
“The old dog!”
“You mistake me, sir. He is a most eminent, erudite, and childish madman. He is so simple, dear count.”
The priest dropped his voice, and the two heads drew close together. It was Fra Tolomeo who talked, von Mirenbach who guffawed and exclaimed. That red mouth of his seemed to grow bigger, but his brown eyes looked hard as glass.
“You rogue! You mean to tell me you have seen—this performance?”
“Sir, it was thrust upon me. A man cannot help having eyes.”
“But you have a sleeve, you scoundrel. I would have you remember that I am a very sensitive gentleman. No smiles, mind you, but gravity, seriousness.”
Fra Tolomeo grimaced.
“I will be more solemn than a bishop, sir, a dignified and fatherly creature.”
“You rogue!”
So these two worthies rode down through the chestnut woods to the Satyr’s Pool, and found nothing but sunlight and silence there and calm blue water. They dismounted, and tethered the black horse and the white mule to a couple of old arbutus trees, and climbed the steps to the villa.
“The old fellow keeps good wine, sir.”
“You have tasted it have you?”
“Once or twice, dear Count. I see no one about. Their woman, Maria, knows me.”
It was Maria, a swarthy peasant of five-and-thirty, with a Roman shawl over her bosom, who met them in the loggia. She stared at Fra Tolomeo with her dull black eyes, and waited.
“Maria, the Count has come to visit your master. Is the signor at home?”
“Signor Cæsare is in his library, Father. Will you come in?” And she made von Mirenbach a curtsy. “The signorina shall be told of your presence.”
Fra Tolomeo winked at his patron.
“A good girl,” he said softly, “and very religious.”
Rosamunda, caught sleeping on a couch in the salon with her head on a cushion covered with old Venetian velvet, sat up and stared at these portentous visitors. Maria had crowded them in with a cry of “Count Otto von Mirenbach, signorina.”
Now this child had met very few men in her lifetime, and she had never set eyes on anything as stately as the Austrian.
Fra Tolomeo attempted to heal the silence.
“Pardon this intrusion, signorina, but Count Otto has heard so much of your father’s scholarship, that, being no mean scholar himself, he must needs ride over and make his acquaintance.”
Tolomeo was very impressive and paternal, but the girl threw a mere casual glance at his perspiring face.
“My father will be here.”
Von Mirenbach was bowing to her, and making ready to kiss her hand.
“Signorina, this intrusion is our sin, and yet our reward. You will forgive me for waking you from so charming a siesta.”
He advanced two steps, stooping slightly, his cocked hat under his left arm, his whole pose a courtly caress. And all the while her blue eyes were looking him straight in the face, the eyes of a child that read him without fear or favour.
“Permit me.”
He advanced another step, but she was up and away like a bird, and standing by one of the open windows, her eyes still holding his.
“I do not like you,” she said quite simply. “I do not like you at all.”
Next moment she was gone, and the window showed nothing but the tops of green trees and the blue sky. Those red shoes of hers were flitting along the terrace.
Otto von Mirenbach was left standing there, like a man who has been fooled by a shadow, rather foolish and very angry.
“Damn the minx!”
His red mouth was ugly. He heard Fra Tolomeo chuckle.
“You see how simple and wild she is, sir. A thing of the woods and waters.”
The Austrian was moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Something to be caught and tamed,” he said reflectively. “Something fit for Pan to handle. There is reason in all this mythology, my friend. Now, let us see this mad father of hers, and talk antique moon rubbish.”
A door opened jerkily, and Cæsare was with them, sage, big-eyed, and eccentric. He was the grandee, the scholar, the gentleman, less moonstruck in these moments, and just as quick with his courtliness as was this big animal of an Austrian.
“Welcome, gentlemen. It is hot in the sun to-day, and the wine will come cool from the cellar.”
Otto von Mirenbach bowed to him with great deference.
“I have the honour to salute that most eminent, classic and scholar, Maestro Cæsare. Though I come from the north, sir, I make my reverence to the man of the Augustan age.”
Cæsare bowed to him in turn.
“If my villa, sir, holds a few books and some noble learning, it is at the service of all noble scholars and poets.”
“A sweet spot, Maestro, a most sweet spot, a veritable Arcady.”
For five minutes they stood and made solemn and ambassadorial speeches to each other, while Fra Tolomeo grinned in the background, mopped his head, and wondered when the wine was coming. Von Mirenbach was a very great courtier, and a supreme harlequin when he pleased. His scholarliness was not mere tinsel. He could air a fine Latinity, and quote you obscure poets and philosophers with an aptness that filled old Cæsare with delight.
“Will you be seated, Count? The presence of so cultured and erudite a gentleman is an honour to my house. Touching the writings of Plato, I may say——”
They kept it up for an hour or more, and if Otto von Mirenbach had failed with the daughter, he had nothing to complain of in his conquest of the old man.
“My books at Castella Nero, Maestro, wait for your fingers. I need a scholar to handle them. It may be that you will grant me the honour.”
Cæsare waved his hands.
“Your excellency is too kind. Some day it shall be my privilege and pleasure. At present I am very busy, sir, very occupied against the coming of the full moon. The great mysteries are ripe, Count Otto.”
He began to babble about Pan and his woodland crew, and all that wonderful old life that was invisible because of blindness and artificiality of the age. And von Mirenbach listened, solemn as a doge of Venice, and vastly interested, because of other motives and other passions. The old madman was painting a wild, sensuous picture.
“The books can wait, dear Maestro,” he said as he rose to go. “I would not meddle with these learned mysteries.”
“You will be welcome always, and at all hours, sir.”
“You will find no scoffer in me. Perhaps you will make me a disciple.”
He went down the steps to the pool, smiling, licking his lips, with Fra Tolomeo at his heels.
At Monte Verde, Trevanion the Englishman lodged at the house of Luigi the bookseller. He was a little hunchback, with a wild mane of grey-black hair, fierce eyes, and the face of a broken god. He had little to say, but his words, when they did fall, were like bits of glowing wood dropping out of a fire. He lived alone, hated all women, and would not let anything in petticoats enter in his shop.
His enemies said: “He has the evil eye.”
People who knew and who honoured him would tell you: “His wife ran away with a German.”
Trevanion had bought books from this old man, talked to him, and then gone to lodge at his house—for Luigi was more than a bookseller. He was a philosopher and a scholar.
They were sitting out under the vines that night when Trevanion asked him a question.
“Have you ever ridden to Castella Nero?”
“Twice since last autumn.”
“Is there a library there?”
Luigi scowled.
“Yes, the library of Otto von Mirenbach. Why do you ask?”
“Because I met the Austrian to-day.”
“Looking like his books, eh, all bound in red, and gorgeous as sin. I know the beast.”
“He offered me the use of his library, Luigi.”
The Italian’s venom was not assumed.
“Beware of von Mirenbach,” he said, “he is clever and cruel; a man who loves mischief. And yet, I say it, I had the honour of fooling him. I spoilt two ‘Aldines’ for him because he bullied me, and he never knew it.”
When Trevanion went to his little room under the tiles he stood for a long while at the window, looking at the stars. The great enchantment was upon him, though for the moment it was no more to him than a perfume, and the colour of a sunset and haunting music.
But his path in the web had been marked for him, and it led him back to those chestnut woods through the early heat of a June day. The road from the hill-town was dry and dusty, and Trevanion was glad of the deep shade.
He was tired and the day was hot, and lying on his back, there he fell asleep.
The sound of someone playing on a flute awakened him, about an hour later. The notes were rather disjointed and jerky, as though produced by a man who was none too sure of his instrument.
Trevanion turned on his side and raised himself on one elbow so as to bring his head above the lip of the hollow in which he was lying, expecting to glimpse old Cæsare evolving some freakish new canzonetta. What he saw was something quite different, and his surprise was so sudden that he lay there stiff and rigid, like a dog, motionless and at gaze.
Not twenty yards away a man was sitting at the foot of a tree, his back against the trunk. He was dressed in a green hunting suit; a fowling-piece lay on the ground beside him. Trevanion knew him at once by his mouth and his swarthiness and the arrogant bulge of his chin. It was Count Otto von Mirenbach of Castella Nero.
He saw von Mirenbach pull out a big silver watch, glance at it, unscrew his flute and slip it away in his pocket. The sun stood at noon. The hour had some particular significance.
Next moment he was out of his hollow and shadowing the man in the green through the chestnut woods, treading warily, his eyes set in a stare, his mouth a hard line. Von Mirenbach was going down towards the pool in the valley, his fowling-piece under his arm, his hat tilted over his eyes. He went no farther than the outer fringe of chestnut trees, and stood leaning against one of the dark trunks, his green figure almost invisible under the heavy shadows.
Trevanion turned away to the left and pushed on until a gap in the foliage gave him a view of the Satyr’s Pool, and in an instant he understood the meaning of von Mirenbach’s movements. A slim, white figure, showed there in the sunlight, a figure poised upon a flat rock that dipped into the blue water. It was Rosamunda at the pool.
Now Trevanion was something more than a vagrant and a scholar. There was much of the Bayard in him, and not a little of the St. Francis. He loved trees and wild things, innocence, and good books, and beauty wherever he found it, but he was no fool. He could handle a duelling sword with any man, shoot straight, ride a vicious horse, and was hard and tough as a frontiers-man.
He retraced his steps, sighted von Mirenbach still gloating behind his tree, walked down to within ten paces of him, and stood waiting. The ground was mossy here, and the Austrian had heard nothing. Some minutes passed before he happened to turn his head and awoke to the fact that he was not alone.
He faced sharply round, and stood with head up, like some proud beast, angry at being caught at a disadvantage, and for a minute or so these two men looked at each other without speaking a word. Then Trevanion walked straight at von Mirenbach, stopped within a yard of him, and stared him straight in the eyes.
It was an accusation, a challenge, and a warning. No words went with it; neither man uttered a sound. And Trevanion walked out into the sunlight, and down to the Satyr’s Pool where Rosamunda was lacing her dress and shaking out the wet splendour of her hair.
Her eyes lit at the sight of him, for the child wisdom in her had hailed the playmate and the good comrade, yet to Trevanion her delightful and precious innocence had become a thing of difficulty and danger. Pan was alive and in the flesh, skulking red-mouthed in the woods up yonder.
Posed and challenged, the man in him chose simplicity, and threw away the scabbard. Of a sudden he loved this child, as he had never loved any living thing, and in this love of his he found an answer to all that troubled him.
“I have kept my promise. It was very easy to keep.”
“And why was it easy, signor?”
“Because I gave you the promise.”
She smiled and let him have her hand to kiss.
“I like you,” she said, “are all Englishmen the same?”
“In what way, Rosamunda?”
“Your eyes look straight at me, and they tell me I have nothing to fear. What is it that I fear? I cannot tell. But that other day, when you had gone, that other man came.”
Trevanion still held her hand, and she made no movement to withdraw it. Moreover it was good that Otto von Mirenbach should see what he was seeing.
“What man, Rosamunda? Not Otto von Mirenbach?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I met him riding through the woods. And he did not please you?”
She answered quite simply.
“I ran away. He made me afraid. Why did he make me afraid?”
Trevanion looked straight into her eyes.
“Because he is evil and you are good. Because he is ugly and you are beautiful.”
Her exquisite face was lost in a moment’s seriousness, the questioning, wondering seriousness of a child.
“Am I beautiful?”
“You have only to look into the pool. But this man came to the villa?”
“Fra Tolomeo brought him. He spoke with my father about books, and some day father is to go to Castella Nero to see the man’s library, but I shall not go.”
“You are right, Rosamunda. The Austrian is evil, and no good friend for your father.”
He had thought to try and tell her of von Mirenbach’s spying upon her while she bathed, but her innocence made him keep silent, and his heart disliked the telling of it.
His seriousness touched her. There was no Atalanta spirit in her that day, and she went slowly up the steps with him as though some new emotion were stirring in her heart. She had never had a lover, and hardly knew the meaning of the word, but this tall man with the kind and shining eyes brought a new note into her life.
“Tell me,” she said to him, “why do you live in Italy, and travel so far? Maria says it is only the rich people who travel.”
He was touched and amused.
“Are you sorry for me because you think I am poor, Rosamunda?”
“It is not a sin to be poor. And you look so strong and happy.”
He laughed, and loved her more and more.
“And so I am. And now I thank God for my strength and a clean life; but I am not poor, Rosamunda.”
“It does not matter whether you are poor or rich. I hardly know what money is, and I am happy.”
They reached the terrace, and saw Cæsare coming towards them, his flute under his arm. He looked rather madder and more dishevelled than before.
“Ah, it is the Tin Man, the scholar from Oyster Island! Hail, brother scholar! Get you in, child, and see to the wine.”
He took Trevanion by the arm with an air of moonstruck solemnity, and began to walk him up and down the terrace.
“You did not believe me, sir, but the mystery is there, the great mystery. In three days we have the full moon.”
Trevanion had a glimpse of Rosamunda looking at him.
“What is it that I do not believe, signor? And what of the full moon?”
“I am about to see the great god, sir, the great god Pan. For thirty years I have waited and never seen him. But yesterday I heard the pipes.”
Trevanion gave him a quick and almost fierce glance.
“The pipes of Pan?”
“Yes, sir, the pipes of Pan. He is here, he is there, and on the night of the full moon he will come to the pool.”
“Is that so?”
“And my daughter, sir, shall be there to do honour to the great god.”
Trevanion faced round, caught Cæsare by the shoulder, and his other hand was ready for the old man’s throat. But he mastered himself and that moment of anger and disgust, and stood there looking grimly into Cæsare’s face, and wondering what to make of him.
“You are quite mad, signor,” he said very quietly.
Cæsar blinked in his face.
“Mad, am I? We shall see, when the moon is full, and the god steals down.”
Trevanion dropped his hand from the madman’s shoulder.
“Yes, we shall see, signor,” he said; “we shall see. These mysteries are not to be trifled with.”
He had realized Cæsare’s hopelessness, and the perilous futility of trying to reason with him or to warn him. He thought of von Mirenbach haunting those chestnut woods and watching the pool. What if the Austrian had stolen the key of the old man’s madness and had guessed how to use it?
But old Lombardi clung like a pestilence, sensing nothing of the Englishman’s angry yet pitying scorn. They went in to their wine, and Rosamunda left them together when her father began to babble of the classics and to bring out his books. Trevanion was patient with him. The old fool needed subtle handling, and Trevanion gave him his voice, but kept his thoughts to himself.
The full heat of the day was upon them when Trevanion escaped and wandered out on to the terrace. He looked about him in the glare and heard Rosamunda calling him.
“Nigel! Nigel!”
She gave the name in soft Italian, and a smile came into his eyes. There was a little stone belvedere at the end of the terrace, overshadowed by a great pine and half hidden by trailing vines, and there Trevanion found her, sitting on an old bench carved out of chestnut wood, combing her hair.
“My father is very strange these days.”
He bent over her.
“May I sit here beside you, Rosamunda?”
“Why—yes. Are we not friends?”
“I want to speak to you of your father, and it is not easy. Do not do all that he bids you do.”
“But I do not understand.”
“You are too good and too beautiful to understand some things, child. The time of the full moon will be dangerous for your father. And tell me, have you no friends near?”
“Friends? There is Maria; but Maria is always talking of Fra Tolomeo, and I do not like Fra Tolomeo.”
“Yes.”
“There are Sandro and Catarina at the farm. Sandro is a good man, and I love them very much.”
“Where is the farm?”
“Down yonder, at the end of the valley.”
Trevanion told himself that he would go and see Sandro and Catarina.
Her exquisite face had grown serious and a little sad.
“Why should the full moon be dangerous for my father?”
“Your father is not as other men, Rosamunda. Much learning has made him strange, and sometimes such men dream strange dreams.”
“You make me afraid. And you will go away and leave me perhaps.”
He bent and kissed her fingers.
“No, on my oath. I shall be near you, near you so long as you bid me stop. That is a promise, Rosamunda.”
“Dear friend,” she said, smiling. “I have known you but two days, and yet—I trust you.”
“Go on trusting me,” he answered, “and I shall be proud and happy.”
He was loth to leave her; she seemed very much a child to him, a little triste, and a little lonely, and his man’s tenderness went out to her.
“I am so sad to-day, Nigel, and yet I cannot tell you why.”
He touched her arm very gently.
“Then, I am sad also. For you are the sunshine, Rosamunda, and when the sunlight is clouded——”
“Why must you go?”
“It is not for myself that I go, child. Some day I may tell you more of all this. And I will come to the Villa Lunetta to-morrow.”
He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he was shy of her innocence, and this new, swift love of his was a white flame.
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” she answered him.
Trevanion made straight for the woods, and his path had a double end. He wanted no one to know of his going to Sandro’s farm, and remembered that von Mirenbach might still be loitering there, and that the Austrian was armed. However, he saw nothing of the man in green, even though he lay low awhile and watched.
Half an hour later Trevanion came down through a grove of beech trees and sighted Sandro’s farm. The house lay in the valley, a low, white house half hidden by juniper, acacias, and a smother of vines. There were a few rough outbuildings round it; some grazing land lay between it and the stream, and a stretch of vineyard on the opposite slope of the hill.
Trevanion noted all this with the keen eyes of a man who had fought and hunted. He saw a figure near the orchard wall, the figure of a big man in a white shirt and blue breeches, who was working amid the corn. The green stalks rose above the man’s knees. Trevanion guessed that this was Sandro. He walked round by the stream and across the grassland to the edge of the cornfield. The man went on working, not troubling to look up till Trevanion was close to him, although he had seen him long ago.
“Good day to you, Farmer Sandro.”
The man straightened himself and looked at Trevanion with a pair of grave, dark eyes. He was the old Roman type, eagle-nosed, square-chinned, hard as oak, reticent, practical, a good friend and a merciless enemy.
“Good day to you, Tadeschi,” he said.
Trevanion smiled.
“I’m no Austrian, but an Englishman. It has been told me, padrone, that you are a good friend to the little lady of the Villa Lunetta. Is that so?”
Sandro’s eyes narrowed a little.
“That is so, stranger. And what of it?”
“If you are her friend you will swear faith to her and to me.”
“And who are you, stranger, that you ask me to swear oaths?”
Trevanion spoke straight at him, judging his fibre.
“Man, would it please you to see the little signorina in the hands of Otto von Mirenbach?”
“God forbid!”
“Then you are her friend, even as I am her friend. It is a strange household up there, padrone.”
“Very strange, signor. But who are you?”
“An Englishman who travels as he pleases. I lodge at Monte Verde in the house of Luigi the bookseller. In England I own a great house and many farms. And, man, if you want the truth from me, know that I think of that little lady as my wife. Her father is mad, and that damned Austrian sneaks in the woods to see her bathing. The Pool of the Satyr—there is some tale about it, some mystery?”
Sandro grew dark as a thundercloud.
“An old woman’s tale,” he said; “and yet—who knows! There are devils, signor, as well as men. Catarina, my wife, has worried about the little lady, because of that pool and her innocence.”
“What is the tale, Sandro?”
“It was like this, signor. Once upon a time a girl used to bathe in that pool, just as the signorina bathes there now. In the old days the pool was sacred to the goat-god of the woods, and on certain nights at the full moon this goat-god has the power to escape out of Hades and run wild as of old. They say he found this girl bathing by moonlight and loved her, and next morning she was dead, floating in the pool. And the old women say, signor, that the girl must be fair-headed and that the goat-god goes mad when he seizes La Bionda.”
Trevanion look very grim.
“Old Cæsare knows that tale, Sandro. He waits for the goat-god at the next full moon, and would make his child bathe there at midnight!”
Sandro crossed himself.
“It must not happen,” he said; “the old man is possessed by a devil. Even if no harm came of it, it is an infamy, for the little lady is an angel.”
Trevanion held out his hand.
“Padrone, we can trust each other. I shall watch that pool each night till the time is past, but Monte Verde is too far for me, nor have I any reason to think that the Austrian loves me over much. I could make a shelter in the woods, and if you could sell me food?”
The Italian was more generous.
“My house is yours, signor. You can be as secret as you please. No one need know that you are here. And when will you come?”
“To-morrow. I must see Luigi, and get him to spin a tale for me—say I have gone to Rome.”
“Good. Then to-morrow.”
