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.”
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.”
