Tony was stretched on the parapet that bordered the stone-paved platform
of the fortress. Above him the crumbling tower rose many feet higher,
below him a marvelous view stretched invitingly; but Tony had eyes
neither for medieval architecture nor picturesque scenery. He lay with
his coat doubled under his head for a pillow, in a frowning contemplation
of the cracked stone pavement.
The four other men, after an hour or so of easy lounging under the pines
at the base of the tower, had organized a fresh expedition to the summit
a mile farther up. Mr. Wilder, since morning, had developed into an
enthusiastic mountain-climber--regret might come with the morrow, but as
yet ambition still burned high. The remainder of the party were less
energetic. The three ladies were resting on rugs spread under the pines;
Beppo was sleeping in the sun, his hat over his face, and the donkeys,
securely tethered (Tony had attended to that) were innocently nibbling
mountain herbs.
There was no obvious reason why, as he lighted a cigarette and stretched
himself on the parapet, Tony should not have been the most self-satisfied
guide in the world. He had not only completed the expedition in safety,
but had saved the heroine's life by the way; and even if the heroine did
not appear as thankful as she might, still, her father had shown due
gratitude, and, what was to the point, had promised a reward. That should
have been enough for any reasonable donkey-driver.
But it was distinctly not enough for Tony. He was in a fine temper as he
lay on the parapet and scowled at the pavement. Nothing was turning out
as he had planned. He had not counted on the officers or her
predilection for Italian. He had not counted on chasing donkeys in person
while she stood and looked on--Beppo was to have attended to that. He had
not counted on anything quite so absurd as his heroic capture of
Fidilini. Since she must let the donkey run away with her, why, in the
name of all that was romantic--could it not have occurred by moonlight?
Why, when he caught the beast, could it not have been by the bridle
instead of the tail? And above all, why could she not have fallen into
his arms, instead of on top of him?
The stage scenery was set for romance, but from the moment the curtain
rose the play had persisted in being farce. However, farce or romance, it
was all one to him so long as he could play leading-man; what he objected
to was the minor part. The fact was clear that sash and earrings could
never compete with uniform and sword and the Italian language. His mind
was made up; he would withdraw tonight before he was found out, and
leave Valedolmo tomorrow morning by the early boat. Miss Constance Wilder
should never have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.
He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder--thanking him
for his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had been
merely a matter of duty--when his reflections were cut short by the sound
of footsteps on the stairs. They were by no means noiseless footsteps;
there were good strong nails all over the bottom of Constance's shoes.
The next moment she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were centered on
the view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to his
feet that she realized his presence with a start.
"Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don't get up; I know you
must be tired." This with a sweetly solicitous smile.
Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morning
that she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered over
to the opposite side and stood with her back to him examining the view.
Tony turned his back and affected to be engaged with the view in the
other direction; he too could play at indifference.
Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated
herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony's parapet. He
rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it
was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his
employer.
"Oh, sit down," she insisted, "I want to talk to you."
[Illustration: "She seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window
close beside Tony's parapet"]
He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted
that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry
to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with
the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses--flattening the
petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it
seemed to Tony's suddenly clamoring senses, that was almost a caress.
Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a
laugh.
"Tony," she said, "do you spik any language besides Angleesh?"
He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion.
"_Si_, signorina, I spik my own language."
"Would you mind my asking what that language is?"
He indulged in a moment's deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the
question, and French she doubtless knew better than he--he deplored this
polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.
He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at
Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed
him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of
the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted
with that.
"My own language, signorina, is Magyar."
"Magyar?" She was clearly taken by surprise.
"_Si_, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest." He met her
wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candor.
"Really!" She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better
than she had hoped. "But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in
Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?"
"My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint
Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to
Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will
find it again."
"That is very interesting," she said politely. "How do you come to know
English so well, Tony?"
"We go live in Amerik' when I li'l boy."
"And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have
taught it to you."
He imitated Beppo's gesture.
"A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home."
"Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it."
"What shall I say, signorina?"
"Oh, say anything you please."
He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his
command. Latin--French--German--none of them any good--but, thank
goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again
the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with
an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational
inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.
"_Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and
eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum._"
"It is a very beautiful language. Say some more."
He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf.
"_Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas._"
"What does that mean?"
Tony looked embarrassed.
"I don't believe you know!"
"It means--_scusi_, signorina, I no like to say."
"You don't know."
"It means--you make me say, signorina,--'I sink you ver' beautiful like
ze angels in Paradise.'"
"Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that."
"But it is true."
"The more reason you should not say it."
"You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie."
The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized
the opportunity to look sidewise at her. She turned back and caught him;
he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.
"Does Beppo speak Magyar?" she inquired.
"Beppo?" There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were
taking. "I sink not, signorina."
"That must be very inconvenient. Why don't you teach it to him?"
"_Si_, signorina." He was plainly nonplussed.
"Yes, he says that you are his father and I should think--"
"His father?" Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. "He
did not mean his real father; he mean--how you say--his god-father. I
give to him his name when he get christened."
"Oh, I see!"
Her next question was also a surprise.
"Tony," she inquired with startling suddenness, "why do you wear
earrings?"
He reddened slightly.
"Because--because--der's a girl I like ver' moch, signorina; she sink
earrings look nice. I wear zem for her."
"Oh!--But why do you fasten them on with thread?"
"Because I no wear zem always. In Italia, yes; in Amerik' no. When I
marry dis girl and go back home, zen I do as I please, now I haf to do as
she please."
"H'm--" said Constance, ruminatingly. "Where does this girl live, Tony?"
"In Valedolmo, signorina."
"What does she look like?"
"She look like--" His eyes searched the landscape and came back to her
face. "Oh, ver' beautiful, signorina. She have hair brown and gold, and
eyes--yes, eyes! Zay are sometimes black, signorina, and sometimes gray.
Her laugh, it sounds like the song of a nightingale." He clasped his
hands and rolled his eyes in a fine imitation of Gustavo. "She is
beautiful, signorina, beautiful as ze angels in Paradise!"
"There seem to be a good many people beautiful as the angels in
Paradise."
"She is most beautiful of all."
"What is her name?"
"Costantina." He said it softly, his eyes on her face.
"Ah," Constance rose and turned away with a shrug. Her manner suggested
that he had gone too far.
"She wash clothes at ze Hotel du Lac," he called after her.
Constance paused and glanced over her shoulder with a laugh.
"Tony," she said, "the quality which I admire most in a donkey-driver,
besides truthfulness and picturesqueness, is imagination."