LITMIR.BIZ

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      A general laugh among the bystanders accompanied these last words of the conjuror, raised, probably, by the look of relief and confidence with which Tessa clung to Tito’s arm, as he drew it from her waist, and placed her hand within it. She only cared about the laugh as she might have cared about the roar of wild beasts from which she was escaping, not attaching any meaning to it; but Tito, who had no sooner got her on his arm than he foresaw some embarrassment in the situation, hastened to get clear of observers who, having been despoiled of an expected amusement, were sure to re-establish the balance by jests.

      “See, see, little one! here is your hood,” said the conjuror, throwing the bit of white drapery over Tessa’s head. “Orsù, bear me no malice; come back to me when Messere can spare you.”

      “Ah! Maestro Vaiano, she’ll come back presently, as the toad said to the harrow,” called out one of the spectators, seeing how Tessa started and shrank at the action of the conjuror.

      Tito pushed his way vigorously towards the corner of a side-street, a little vexed at this delay in his progress to the Via de’ Bardi, and intending to get rid of the poor little contadina as soon as possible. The next street, too, had its passengers inclined to make holiday remarks on so unusual a pair; but they had no sooner entered it than he said, in a kind but hurried manner, “Now, little one, where were you going? Are you come by yourself to the Festa?”

      “Ah, no!” said Tessa, looking frightened and distressed again; “I have lost my mother in the crowd—her and my father-in-law. They will be angry—he will beat me. It was in the crowd in San Pulinari—somebody pushed me along and I couldn’t stop myself, so I got away from them. Oh, I don’t know where they’re gone! Please, don’t leave me!”

      Her eyes had been swelling with tears again, and she ended with a sob.

      Tito hurried along again: the Church of the Badia was not far off. They could enter it by the cloister that opened at the back, and in the church he could talk to Tessa—perhaps leave her. No! it was an hour at which the church was not open; but they paused under the shelter of the cloister, and he said, “Have you no cousin or friend in Florence, my little Tessa, whose house you could find; or are you afraid of walking by yourself since you have been frightened by the conjuror? I am in a hurry to get to Oltrarno, but if I could take you anywhere near—”

      “Oh, I am frightened: he was the devil—I know he was. And I don’t know where to go. I have nobody: and my mother meant to have her dinner somewhere, and I don’t know where. Holy Madonna! I shall be beaten.”

      The corners of the pouting mouth went down piteously, and the poor little bosom with the beads on it above the green serge gown heaved so, that there was no longer any help for it: a loud sob would come, and the big tears fell as if they were making up for lost time. Here was a situation! It would have been brutal to leave her, and Tito’s nature was all gentleness. He wished at that moment that he had not been expected in the Via de’ Bardi. As he saw her lifting up her holiday apron to catch the hurrying tears, he laid his hand, too, on the apron, and rubbed one of the cheeks and kissed the baby-like roundness.

      “My poor little Tessa! leave off crying. Let us see what can be done. Where is your home—where do you live?”

      There was no answer, but the sobs began to subside a little and the drops to fall less quickly.

      “Come! I’ll take you a little way, if you’ll tell me where you want to go.”

      The apron fell, and Tessa’s face began to look as contented as a cherub’s budding from a cloud. The diabolical conjuror, the anger and the beating, seemed a long way off.

      “I think I’ll go home, if you’ll take me,” she said, in a half whisper, looking up at Tito with wide blue eyes, and with something sweeter than a smile—with a childlike calm.

      “Come, then, little one,” said Tito, in a caressing tone, putting her arm within his again. “Which way is it?”

      “Beyond Peretola—where the large pear-tree is.”

      “Peretola? Out at which gate, pazzarella? I am a stranger, you must remember.”

      “Out at the Por del Prato,” said Tessa, moving along with a very fast hold on Tito’s arm.

      He did not know all the turnings well enough to venture on an attempt at choosing the quietest streets; and besides, it occurred to him that where the passengers were most numerous there was, perhaps, the most chance of meeting with Monna Ghita and finding an end to his knight-errant-ship. So he made straight for Porta Rossa, and on to Ognissanti, showing his usual bright propitiatory face to the mixed observers who threw their jests at him and his little heavy-shod maiden with much liberality. Mingled with the more decent holiday-makers there were frolicsome apprentices, rather envious of his good fortune; bold-eyed women with the badge of the yellow veil; beggars who thrust forward their caps for alms, in derision at Tito’s evident haste; dicers, sharpers, and loungers of the worst sort; boys whose tongues were used to wag in concert at the most brutal street games: for the streets of Florence were not always a moral spectacle in those times, and Tessa’s terror at being lost in the crowd was not wholly unreasonable.

      When they reached the Piazza d’Ognissanti, Tito slackened his pace: they were both heated with their hurried walk, and here was a wider space where they could take breath. They sat down on one of the stone benches which were frequent against the walls of old Florentine houses.

      “Holy Virgin!” said Tessa; “I am glad we have got away from those women and boys; but I was not frightened, because you could take care of me.”

      “Pretty little Tessa!” said Tito, smiling at her. “What makes you feel so safe with me?”

      “Because you are so beautiful—like the people going into Paradise: they are all good.”

      “It is a long while since you had your breakfast, Tessa,” said Tito, seeing some stalls near, with fruit and sweetmeats upon them. “Are you hungry?”

      “Yes, I think I am—if you will have some too.”

      Tito bought some apricots, and cakes, and comfits, and put them into her apron.

      “Come,” he said, “let us walk on to the Prato, and then perhaps you will not be afraid to go the rest of the way alone.”

      “But you will have some of the apricots and things,” said Tessa, rising obediently and gathering up her apron as a bag for her store.

      “We will see,” said Tito aloud; and to himself he said, “Here is a little contadina who might inspire a better idyl than Lorenzo de’ Medici’s ‘Nencia da Barberino,’ that Nello’s friends rave about; if I were only a Theocritus, or had time to cultivate the necessary experience by unseasonable walks of this sort! However, the mischief is done now: I am so late already that another half-hour will make no difference. Pretty little pigeon!”

      “We have a garden and plenty of pears,” said Tessa, “and two cows, besides the mules; and I’m very fond of them. But my father-in-law is a cross man: I wish my mother had not married him. I think he is wicked; he is very ugly.”

      “And does your mother let him beat you, poverina? You said you were afraid of being beaten.”

      “Ah, my mother herself scolds me: she loves my young sister better, and thinks I don’t do work enough. Nobody speaks kindly to me, only the Pievano (parish priest) when I go to confession. And the men in the Mercato laugh at me and make fun of me. Nobody ever kissed me and spoke to me as you do; just as I talk to my little black-faced kid, because I’m very fond of it.”

      It seemed not to have entered Tessa’s mind that there was any change in Tito’s appearance since the morning he begged the milk from her, and that he looked now like a personage for whom she must summon her little stock of reverent words and signs. He had impressed her too differently from any human being who had ever come near her before, for her to make any comparison of details; she took no note of his dress; he was simply

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