On the homeward journey Tony again trudged behind while the officers held their post at Constance’s side. But Tony’s spirits were still singing from the little encounter on the castle platform, and in spite of the animated Italian which floated back, he was determined to look at the sunny side of the adventure. It was Mr. Wilder who unconsciously supplied him with a second opportunity for conversation. He and the Englishman, being deep in a discussion involving statistics of the Italian army budget, called on the two officers to set them straight. Tony, at their order, took his place beside the saddle; Constance was not to be abandoned again to Fidilini’s caprice. Miss Hazel and the Englishwoman were ambling on ahead in as matter-of-fact a fashion as if that were their usual mode of travel. Their donkeys were of a sedater turn of mind than Fidilini—a fact for which Tony offered thanks.

They were by this time well over the worst part of the mountain and the brief Italian twilight was already fading. Tony, with a sharp eye on the path ahead and a ready hand for the bridle, was attending strictly to the duties of a well-trained donkey-man. It was Constance again who opened the conversation.

“Ah, Tony?”

“Si, signorina?”

“Did you ever read any Angleesh books—or do you do most of your reading in Magyar?”

“I haf read one, two, Angleesh books.”

“Did you ever read—er—‘The Lightning Conductor’ for example?”

“No, signorina; I haf never read heem.”

“I think it would interest you. It’s about a man who pretends he’s a chauffeur in order to—to— There are any number of books with the same motive; ‘She Stoops to Conquer,’ ‘Two Gentlemen of Verona,’ ‘Lalla Rookh,’ ‘Monsieur Beaucaire’—Oh, dozens of them! It’s an old plot; it doesn’t require the slightest originality to think of it.”

“Si, signorina? Sank you.” Tony’s tone was exactly like Gustavo’s when he has failed to get the point, but feels that a comment is necessary.

Constance laughed and allowed a silence to follow, while Tony redirected his attention to Fidilini’s movements. His “Yip! Yip!” was an exact imitation, though in a deeper guttural, of Beppo’s cries before them. It would have taken a close observer to suspect that he had not been bred to the calling.

“You have not always been a donkey-driver?” she inquired after an interval of amused scrutiny.

“Not always, signorina.”

“What did you do in New York?”

“I play hand-organ, signorina.”

Tony removed his hand from the bridle and ground “Yankee Doodle” from an imaginary instrument.

“I make musica, signorina, wif—wif—how you say, monk, monka? His name Vittorio Emanuele. Ver’ nice monk—simpatica affezionata.”

“You’ve never been an actor?”

“An actor? No, signorina.”

“You should try it; I fancy you might have some talent in that direction.”

“Si, signorina. Sank you.”

She let the conversation drop, and Tony, after an interval of silence, fell to humming Santa Lucia in a very presentable baritone. The tune, Constance noted, was true enough, but the words were far astray.

“That’s a very pretty song, Tony, but you don’t appear to know it.”

“I no understand Italian, signorina. I just learn ze tune because Costantina like it.”

“You do everything that Costantina wishes?”

“Everysing! But if you could see her you would not wonder. She has hair brown and gold, and her eyes, signorina, are sometimes gray and sometimes black, and her laugh sounds like—”

“Oh, yes, I know; you told me all that before.”

“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?”

“You forget yourself, Tony. It is not your place to ask such a question.”

“Si, signorina; it is my place. If it is true I cannot be your donkey-man any longer.”

“No, it is not true, but that is no concern of yours.”

“Are you going on another trip Friday—to Monte Maggiore?”

“Yes.”

“May I come with you?”

His tone implied more than his words. She hesitated a moment, then shrugged indifferently.

“Just as you please, Tony. If you don’t wish to work for us any more I dare say we can find another man.”

“It is as you please, signorina. If you wish it, I come, if you do not wish it, I go.”

She made no answer. They joined the others and the party proceeded to the villa gates.

Lieutenant di Ferara helped Constance dismount, while Captain Coroloni, with none too good a grace, held the donkey. A careful observer would have fancied that the lieutenant was ahead, and that both he and the captain knew it. Tony untied the bundles, dumped them on the kitchen floor, and waited respectfully, hat in hand, while Mr. Wilder searched his pockets for change. He counted out four lire and added a note. Tony pocketed the lire and returned the note, while Mr. Wilder stared his astonishment.

“Good-bye, Tony,” Constance smiled as he turned away.

“Good-bye, signorina.” There was a note of finality in his voice.

“Well!” Mr. Wilder ejaculated. “That is the first—” “Italian” he started to say, but he caught the word before it was out “—donkey-driver I ever saw refuse money.”

Lieutenant di Ferara raised his shoulders.

“MachÈ! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him.” There was a world of disgust in his tone.

Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.

“Tony!” she called.

He kept on; she raised her voice.

“Mr. Yamhankeesh.”

He paused.

“You call, signorina?”

“Be sure and be here by half past six on Friday morning; we must start early.”

“Sank you, signorina. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Tony.”