“When she goes out to work in ze morning, signorina, wif the sunlight shining on her hair, and a smile on her lips, and a basket of clothes on her head—Ah, zen she is beautiful!”
“When are you going to be married?”
“I do not know, signorina. I have not asked her yet.”
“Then how do you know she wishes to marry you?”
“I do not know; I just hope.”
He rolled his eyes toward the moon which was rising above the mountains on the other side of the lake, and with a deep sigh he fell back into Santa Lucia.
Constance leaned forward and scanned his face.
“Tony! Tell me your name.” There was an undertone of meaning, a note of persuasion in her voice.
“Antonio, signorina.”
She shook her head with a show of impatience.
“Your real name—your last name.”
“Yamhankeesh.”
“Oh!” she laughed. “Antonio Yamhankeesh doesn’t seem to me a very musical combination; I don’t think I ever heard anything like it before.”
“It suits me, signorina.” His tone carried a suggestion of wounded dignity. “Yamhankeesh has a ver’ beautiful meaning in my language—‘He who dares not, wins not’.”
“And that is your motto?”
“Si, signorina.”
“A very dangerous motto, Tony; it will some day get you into trouble.”
They had reached the base of the mountain and their path now broadened into the semblance of a road which wound through the fields, between fragrant hedgerows, under towering chestnut trees. All about them was the fragrance of the dewy, flower-scented summer night, the flash of fireflies, the chirp of crickets, occasionally the note of a nightingale. Before them out of a cluster of cypresses, rose the square graceful outline of the village campanile.
Constance looked about with a pleased, contented sigh.
“Isn’t Italy beautiful, Tony?”
“Yes, signorina, but I like America better.”
“We have no cypresses and ruins and nightingales in America, Tony. We have a moon sometimes, but not that moon.”
They passed from the moonlight into the shade of some overhanging chestnut trees. Fidilini stumbled suddenly over a break in the path and Tony pulled him up sharply. His hand on the bridle rested for an instant over hers.
“Italy is beautiful—to make love in,” he whispered.
She drew her hand away abruptly, and they passed out into the moonlight again. Ahead of them where the road branched into the highway, the others were waiting for Constance to catch up, the two officers looking back with an eager air of expectation. Tony glanced ahead and added with a quick frown.
“But perhaps I do not need to tell you that—you may know it already?”
“You are impertinent, Tony.”
She pulled the donkey into a trot that left him behind.
The highway was broad and they proceeded in a group, the conversation general and in English, Tony quite naturally having no part in it. But at the corners where the road to the village and the road to the villa separated, Fidilini obligingly turned stubborn again. His mind bent upon rest and supper, he insisted upon going to the village; the harder Constance pulled on the left rein, the more fixed was his determination to turn to the right.
“Help! I’m being run away with again,” she called over her shoulder as the donkey’s pace quickened into a trot.
Tony, awakening to his duty, started in pursuit, while the others laughingly shouted directions. He did not run as determinedly as he might and they had covered considerable ground before he overtook them. He turned Fidilini’s head and they started back—at a walk.
“Signorina,” said Tony, “may I ask a question, a little impertinent?”
“No, certainly not.”
Silence.
“Ah, Tony?” she asked presently.
“Si, signorina?”
“What is it you want to ask?”
“Are you going to marry that Italian lieutenant—or perhaps the captain?”
“That is impertinent.”
“Are you?”
