LITMIR.BIZ

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thank you, signore,” Agostino gesticulated.

      “But, tell me, when did you learn it, my friend?”

      In answer, Agostino lifted his hand a little boy’s height from the earth.

      The old man then said: “I am afraid, my dear Corte, you must accept the fellowship of a girl as well as of a boy upon this occasion. See! our Carlo! You recognize that dancing speck below there?—he has joined himself—the poor lad wishes he could, I dare swear!—to another bigger speck, which is verily a lady: who has joined herself to a donkey—a common habit of the sex, I am told; but I know them not. That lady, signor Ugo, is the signorina Vittoria. You stare? But, I tell you, the game cannot go on without her; and that is why I have permitted you to knock the ball about at your own pleasure for these forty minutes.”

      Corte drew his under-lip on his reddish stubble moustache. “Are we to have women in a conference?” he asked from eye to eye.

      “Keep to the number, Ugo; and moreover, she is not a woman, but a noble virgin. I discern a distinction, though you may not. The Vestal’s fire burns straight.”

      “Who is she?”

      “It rejoices me that she should be so little known. All the greater the illumination when her light shines out! The signorina Vittoria is a cantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards.”

      “Ah! that completes it.” Corte rose to his feet with an air of desperation. “We require to be refreshed with quavers and crescendos and trillets! Who ever knew a singer that cared an inch of flesh for her country? Money, flowers, flattery, vivas! but, money! money! and Austrian as good as Italian. I’ve seen the accursed wenches bow gratefully for Austrian bouquets:—bow? ay, and more; and when the Austrian came to them red with our blood. I spit upon their polluted cheeks! They get us an ill name wherever they go. These singers have no country. One—I knew her—betrayed Filippo Mastalone, and sang the night of the day he was shot. I heard the white demon myself. I could have taken her long neck till she twisted like a serpent and hissed. May heaven forgive me for not levelling a pistol at her head! If God, my friends, had put the thought into my brain that night!”

      A flush had deadened Corte’s face to the hue of nightshade.

      “You thunder in a clear atmosphere, my Ugo,” returned the old man, as he fell back calmly at full length.

      “And who is this signorina Vittoria?” cried Corte.

      “A cantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards, as I have already remarked: of La Scala, let me add, if you hold it necessary.”

      “And what does she do here?”

      “Her object in coming, my friend? Her object in coming is, first, to make her reverence to one who happens to be among us this day; and secondly, but principally, to submit a proposition to him and to us.”

      “What’s her age?” Corte sneered.

      “According to what calendar would you have it reckoned? Wisdom would say sixty: Father Chronos might divide that by three, and would get scarce a month in addition, hungry as he is for her, and all of us! But Minerva’s handmaiden has no age. And now, dear Ugo, you have your opportunity to denounce her as a convicted screecher by night. Do so.”

      Corte turned his face to the Chief, and they spoke together for some minutes: after which, having had names of noble devoted women, dead and living, cited to him, in answer to brutal bellowings against that sex, and hearing of the damsel under debate as one who was expected and was welcome, he flung himself upon the ground again, inviting calamity by premature resignation. Giulio Bandinelli stretched his hand for Carlo’s glass, and spied the approach of the signorina.

      “Dark,” he said.

      “A jewel of that complexion,” added Agostino, by way of comment.

      “She has scorching eyes.”

      “She may do mischief; she may do mischief; let it be only on the right Side!”

      “She looks fat.”

      “She sits doubled up and forward, don’t you see, to relieve the poor donkey. You, my Giulio, would call a swan fat if the neck were not always on the stretch.”

      “By Bacchus! what a throat she has!”

      “And well interjected, Giulio! It runs down like wine, like wine, to the little ebbing and flowing wave! Away with the glass, my boy! You must trust to all that’s best about you to spy what’s within. She makes me young—young!”

      Agostino waved his hand in the form of a salute to her on the last short ascent. She acknowledged it gracefully; and talking at intervals to Carlo Ammiani, who footed briskly by her side, she drew by degrees among the eyes fixed on her, some of which were not gentle; but hers were for the Chief, at whose feet, when dismounted by Ammiani’s solicitous aid, she would have knelt, had he not seized her by her elbows, and put his lips to her cheek.

      “The signorina Vittoria, gentlemen,” said Agostino.

      CHAPTER III

      The old man had introduced her with much of the pride of a father displaying some noble child of his for the first time to admiring friends.

      “She is one of us,” he pursued; “a daughter of Italy! My daughter also; is it not so?”

      He turned to her as for a confirmation. The signorina pressed his fingers. She was a little intimidated, and for the moment seemed shy and girlish. The shade of her broad straw hat partly concealed her vivid features.

      “Now, gentlemen, if you please, the number is complete, and we may proceed to business,” said Agostino, formally but as he conducted the signorina to place her at the feet of the Chief, she beckoned to her servant, who was holding the animal she had ridden. He came up to her, and presented himself in something of a military posture of attention to her commands. These were that he should take the poor brute to water, and then lead him back to Baveno, and do duty in waiting upon her mother. The first injunction was received in a decidedly acquiescent manner. On hearing the second, which directed his abandonment of his post of immediate watchfulness over her safety, the man flatly objected with a “Signorina, no.”

      He was a handsome bright-eyed fellow, with a soldier’s frame and a smile as broad and beaming as laughter, indicating much of that mixture of acuteness, and simplicity which is a characteristic of the South, and means no more than that the extreme vivacity of the blood exceeds at times that of the brain.

      A curious frown of half-amused astonishment hung on the signorina’s face.

      “When I tell you to go, Beppo!”

      At once the man threw out his fingers, accompanied by an amazingly voluble delivery of his reasons for this revolt against her authority. Among other things, he spoke of an oath sworn by him to a foreign gentleman, his patron,—for whom, and for whomsoever he loved, he was ready to pour forth his heart’s blood,—to the effect that he would never quit her side when she left the roof of her house.

      “You see, Beppo,” she remonstrated, “I am among friends.”

      Beppo gave a sweeping bow, but remained firm where he stood. Ammiani cast a sharp hard look at the man.

      “Do you hear the signorina’s orders?”

      “I hear them, signore.”

      “Will you obey them?”

      She interposed. “He must not hear quick words. Beppo is only showing his love for his master and for me. But you are wrong in this case, my Beppo. You shall give me your protection when I require it; and now, you are sensible, and must understand that it is not wanted. I tell you to go.”

      Beppo read the eyes of his young mistress.

      “Signorina,”—he stooped forward mysteriously,—“signorina, that fellow is in Baveno. I saw him this morning.”

      “Good, good. And now go, my friend.”

      “The signor Agostino,” he remarked loudly, to attract the old man; “the signor Agostino may think

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