CHAPTER VII
"You seemed to be most tremendously in earnest yesterday, when we weretalking about that book," observed Brook on the following afternoon.
"Of course I was," answered Clare. "I said just what I thought."
They were walking together along the high road which leads from Amalfitowards Salerno. It is certainly one of the most beautiful roads inEurope, and in the whole world. The chain of rocky heights dashes withwild abruptness from its five thousand feet straight to the dark-bluesea, bristling with sharp needles and spikes of stone, rough with achaos of brown boulders, cracked from peak to foot with deep torngorges. In each gorge nestles a garden of orange and lemons andpomegranates, and out of the stones there blows a perfume of southernblossom through all the month of May. The sea lies dark and clear below,ever tideless, often still as a woodland pool; then, sometimes, it risessuddenly in deep-toned wrath, smiting the face of the cliff, boomingthrough the low-mouthed caves, curling its great green curls andcombing them out to frothing ringlets along the strips of beach, windingitself about the rock of Conca in a heavily gleaming sheet and whirlingits wraith of foam to heaven, the very ghost of storm.
And in the face of those rough rocks, high above the water, is hewn away that leads round the mountain's base, many miles along it, over thesharp-jutting spurs, and in between the boulders and the needles, downinto the gardens of the gorges and past the dark towers whence watchmenonce descried the Saracen's ill-boding sail and sent up their warningbeacon of smoke by day and fire by night.
It is the most beautiful road in the world, in its infinite variety, inthe grandeur above and the breadth below, and the marvellous richsweetness of the deep gardens--passing as it does out of wilderness intosplendour, out of splendour into wealth of colour and light and odour,and again out to the rugged strength of the loneliness beyond.
Clare and Johnstone had exchanged idle phrases for a while, until theyhad passed Atrani and the turn where the new way leads up to Ravello,and were fairly out on the road. They were both glad to be out togetherand walking, for Clare had grown stronger, and was weary of alwayssitting on the terrace, and Johnstone was tired of taking long walksalone, merely for the sake of being hungry afterwards, and of late hadgiven it up altogether. Mrs. Bowring herself was glad to be alone foronce, and made little or no objection, and so the two had started in theearly afternoon.
Johnstone's remark had been premeditated, for his curiosity had beenaroused on the preceding day by Clare's words and manner. But after shehad given him her brief answer she said no more, and they walked on insilence for a few moments.
"Yes," said Johnstone at last, as though he had been reflecting, "yougenerally say what you think. I didn't doubt it at the time. But youseem rather hard on the men. Women are all angels, of course--"
"Not at all!" interrupted Clare. "Some of us are quite the contrary."
"Well, it's a generally accepted thing, you know. That's what I mean.But it isn't generally accepted that men are. If you take men intoconsideration at all, you must make some allowances."
"I don't see why. You are much stronger than we are. You all think thatyou have much more pride. You always say that you have a sense of honourwhich we can't understand. I should think that with all those advantagesyou would be much too proud to insist upon our making allowances foryou."
"That's rather keen, you know," answered Brook, with a laugh. "All thesame, it's a woman's occupation to be good, and a man has a lot of otherthings to do besides. That's the plain English of it. When a woman isn'tgood she falls. When a man is bad, he doesn't--it's his nature."
"Oh--if you begin by saying that all men are bad! That's an odd way outof it."
"Not at all. Good men and bad women are the exceptions, that's all--inthe way you mean goodness and badness."
"And how do you think I mean goodness and badness? It seems to me thatyou are taking a great deal for granted, aren't you?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Brook, growing vague on a sudden. "Those arerather hard things to talk about."
"I like to talk about them. How do you think I understand those twowords?"
"I don't know," repeated Johnstone, still more vaguely. "I suppose yourtheory is that men and women are exactly equal, and that a man shouldn'tdo what a woman ought not to do--and all that, you know. I don't exactlyknow how to put it."
"I don't see why what is wrong for a woman should be right for a man,"said Clare. "The law doesn't make any difference, does it? A man goes toprison for stealing or forging, and so does a woman. I don't see whysociety should make any distinction about other things. If there were alaw against flirting, it would send the men to prison just like thewomen, wouldn't it?"
"What an awful idea!" laughed Brook.
"Yes, but in theory--"
"Oh, in theory it's all right. But in practice we men are not wrapped incotton and tied up with pink ribbons from the day we are born to the daywe are married. I--I don't exactly know how to explain what I mean, butthat's the general idea. Among poor people--I believe one mustn't saythe lower classes any more--well, with them it isn't quite the same. Thewomen don't get so much care and looking after, when they are young, youknow--that sort of thing. The consequence is, that there's much moreequality between men and women. I believe the women are worse, and themen are better--it's my opinion, at all events. I dare say it isn'tworth much. It's only what I see at home, you know."
"But the working people don't flirt!" exclaimed Clare. "They drink, andthat sort of thing--"
"Yes, lots of them drink, men and women. And as for flirting--theydon't call it flirting, but in their way I dare say it's very much thesame thing. Only, in our part of the country, a man who flirts, if youcall it so, gets just as bad a name as a woman. You see, they have allhad about the same bringing up. But with us it's quite different. A girlis brought up in a cage, like a turtle dove, with nothing to do exceptto be good, while a boy is sent to a public school when he is eleven ortwelve, which is exactly the same as sending him to hell, except that hehas the certainty of getting away."
"But boys don't learn to flirt at Eton," observed the young girl.
"Well--no," answered Johnstone. "But they learn everything else, exceptLatin and Greek, and they go to a private tutor to learn those thingsbefore they go to the university."
"You mean that they learn to drink and gamble, and all that?" askedClare.
"Oh--more or less--a little of everything that does no good--and thenyou expect us afterwards to be the same as you are, who have beenbrought up by your mothers at home. It isn't fair, you know."
"No," answered Clare, yielding. "It isn't fair. That strikes me as thebest argument you have used yet. But it doesn't make it right, for allthat. And why shouldn't men be brought up to be good, just as womenare?"
Brook laughed.
"That's quite another matter. Only a paternal government could dothat--or a maternal government. We haven't got either, so we have to dothe best we can. I only state the fact, and you are obliged to admit it.I can't go back to the reason. The fact remains. In certain ways, at acertain age, all men as a rule are bad, and all women, on the whole, aregood. Most of you know it, and you judge us accordingly and makeallowances. But you yourself don't seem inclined to be merciful. Perhapsyou'll be less hard-hearted when you are older."
"I'm not hard-hearted!" exclaimed Clare, indignantly. "I'm only just.And I shall always be the same, I'm sure."
"If I were a Frenchman," said Brook, "I should be polite, and say that Ihoped so. As I'm not, and as it would be rude to say that I didn'tbelieve it, I'll say nothing. Only to be what you call just, isn't theway to be liked, you know."
"I don't want to be liked," Clare answered, rather sharply. "I hate whatare called popular people!"
"So do I. They are generally awful bores, don't you know? They want tokeep the thing up and be liked all the time."
"Well--if one likes people at all, one ought to like them all the time,"objected Clare, with unnecessary contrariety.
"A man who will do that sort of thing is past praying for!" retorted theyoung girl. "It seems to me that when a man makes a woman believe thathe loves her, the best thing he can do is to be faithful to herafterwards."
"Yes--but supposing that he is quite sure that he can't make herhappy--"
"Then he had no right to make love to her at all."
"But he didn't know it at first. He didn't find out until he had knownher a long time."
"That makes it all the worse," exclaimed Clare with conviction, butwithout logic.
"And while he was trying to find out, she fell in love with him,"continued Brook. "That was unlucky, but it wasn't his fault, you know--"
"Oh yes, it was--in that book at least. He asked her to marry himbefore he had half made up his mind. Really, Mr. Johnstone," shecontinued, almost losing her temper, "you defend the man almost asthough you were defending yourself!"
"That's rather a hard thing to say to a man, isn't it?"
Johnstone was young enough to be annoyed, though he was amused.
"Then why do you defend the man?" asked Clare, standing still at a turnof the road and facing him.
"I won't, if we are going to quarrel about a ridiculous book," heanswered, looking at her. "My opinion's not worth enough for that."
"If you have an opinion at all, it's worth fighting for."
"I don't want to fight, and I won't fight with you," he answered,beginning to laugh.
"With me or with any one else--"
"No--not with you," he said with sudden emphasis.
"Why not with me?"
"Because I like you very much," he answered boldly, and they stoodlooking at each other in the middle of the road.
Clare had started in surprise, and the colour rose slowly to her face,but she would not take her eyes from his. For the first time it seemedto her that he had no power over her.
"I'm sorry," she answered. "For I don't like you."
"Are you in earnest?" He could not help laughing.
"Yes." There was no mistaking her tone.
Johnstone's face changed, and for the first time in their acquaintancehe was the one to turn his eyes away.
"I'm sorry too," he said quietly. "Shall we turn back?" he asked after amoment's pause.
"No, I want to walk," answered Clare.
She turned from him, and began to walk on in silence. For some timeneither spoke. Johnstone was puzzled, surprised, and a little hurt, buthe attributed what she had said to his own roughness in telling her thathe liked her, though he could not see that he had done anything so veryterrible. He had spoken spontaneously, too, without the least thought ofproducing an impression, or of beginning to make love to her. Perhaps heowed her an apology. If she thought so, he did, and it could do no harmto try.
"I'm very sorry, if I have offended you just now," he said gently. "Ididn't mean to."
"You didn't offend me," answered Clare. "It isn't rude to say that onelikes a person."
"Oh--I beg your pardon--I thought perhaps--"
He hesitated, surprised by her very unexpected answer. He could notimagine what she wanted.
"Because I said that I didn't like you?" she asked.
"Well--yes."
"Then it was I who offended you," answered the young girl. "I didn'tmean to, either. Only, when you said that you liked me, I thought youwere in earnest, you know, and so I wanted to be quite honest, because Ithought it was fairer. You see, if I had let you think that I liked you,you might have thought we were going to drift into being friends, andthat's impossible, you know--because I never did like you, and I nevershall. But that needn't prevent our walking together, and talking, andall that. At least, I don't mean that it should. That's the reason why Iwon't turn back just yet--"
"But how in the world can you enjoy walking and talking with a man youdon't like?" asked Johnstone, who was completely at sea, and began tothink that he must be dreaming.
"Well--you are awfully good company, you know, and I can't always besitting with my mother on the terrace, though we love each otherdearly."
"You are the most extraordinary person!" exclaimed Johnstone, ingenuine bewilderment. "And of course your mother dislikes me too,doesn't she?"
"Not at all," answered Clare. "You asked me that before, and I told youthe truth. Since then, she likes you better and better. She is alwayssaying how nice you are."
"Then I had better always talk to her," suggested Brook, feeling for aclue.
"Oh, I shouldn't like that at all!" cried the young girl, laughing.
"And yet you don't like me. This is like twenty questions. You must havesome very particular reason for it," he added thoughtfully. "I suppose Imust have done some awful thing without knowing it. I wish you wouldtell me. Won't you, please? Then I'll go away."
"No," Clare answered. "I won't tell you. But I have a reason. I'm notcapricious. I don't take violent dislikes to people for nothing. Let italone. We can talk very pleasantly about other things. Since you aregood enough to like me, it might be amusing to tell me why. If you haveany good reason, you know, you won't stop liking me just because I don'tlike you, will you?"
She glanced sideways at him as she spoke, and he was watching her andtrying to understand her, for the revelation of her dislike had comeupon him very suddenly. She was on the right as they walked, and he sawher against the light sky, above the line of the low parapet. Perhapsthe light behind her dazzled him; at all events, he had a strangeimpression for a moment. She seemed to have the better of him, and to bestronger and more determined than he. She seemed taller than she was,too, for she was on the higher part of the road, in the middle of it.For an instant he felt precisely what she so often felt with him, thatshe had power over him. But he did not resent the sensation as she did,though it was quite as new to him.
Nevertheless, he did not answer her, for she had spoken only half inearnest, and he himself was not just then inclined to joke for the meresake of joking. He looked down at the road under his feet, and he knewall at once that Clare attracted him much more than he had imagined. Thesidelong glance she had bestowed upon him had fascination in it. Therewas an odd charm about her girlish contrariety and in her frank avowalthat she did not like him. Her dislike roused him. He did not choose tobe disliked by her, especially for some absurd trifle in his behaviour,which he had not even noticed when he had made the mistake, whatever itmight be.
He walked along in silence, and he was aware of her light tread and thesoft sound of her serge skirt as she moved. He wished her to like him,and wished that he knew what to do to change her mind. But that wouldnot be easy, since he did not know the cause of her dislike. Presentlyshe spoke again, and more gravely.
"I should not have said that. I'm sorry. But of course you knew that Iwasn't in earnest."
"I don't know why you should not have said it," he answered. "As amatter of fact, you are quite right. I don't like you any the lessbecause you don't like me. Liking isn't a bargain with cash on delivery.I think I like you all the more for being so honest. Do you mind?"
"Not in the least. It's a very good reason." Clare smiled, and thensuddenly looked grave again, wondering whether it would not be reallyhonest to tell him then and there that she had overheard his lastinterview with Lady Fan.
But she reflected that it could only make him feel uncomfortable.
"And another reason why I like you is because you are combative," hesaid thoughtfully. "I'm not, you know. One always admires the qualitiesone hasn't oneself."
"And you are not combative? You don't like to be in the opposition?"
"Not a bit! I'm not fond of fighting. I systematically avoid a row."
"I shouldn't have thought that," said Clare, looking at him again. "Doyou know? I think most people would take you for a soldier."
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br /> "Do I look as though I would seek the bubble reputation at the cannon'smouth?" Brook laughed. "Am I full of strange oaths?"
"Oh, that's ridiculous, you know!" exclaimed Clare. "I mean, you look asthough you would fight."
"I never would if I could help it. And so far I have managed 'to helpit' very well. I'm naturally mild, I think. You are not, you know. Idon't mean to be rude, but I think you are pugnacious--'combative' isprettier."
"My father was a soldier," said the girl, with some pride.
"And mine is a brewer. There's a lot of inheritable difference betweenhandling gunpowder and brewing mild ale. Like father, like son. I shallbrew mild ale too. If you could have charged at Balaclava, you would. Bythe way, it isn't the beer that you object to? Please tell me. Ishouldn't mind at all, and I'd much rather know that it was only that."
"How absurd!" cried Clare with scorn. "As though it made anydifference!"
"Well--what is it, then?" asked Brook with sudden impatience. "You haveno right to hate me without telling me why."
"No right?" The young girl turned on him half fiercely, and thenlaughed. "You haven't a standing order from Heaven to be liked by thewhole human race, you know!"
"And if I had, you would be the solitary exception, I suppose,"suggested Johnstone with a rather discontented smile.
"Perhaps."
"Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind? Because, ifit were anything in reason, I'd do it."
"It's rather a pity that you should put in the condition of its being inreason," answered Clare, as her lip curled. "But there isn't anything.You may just as well give it up at once."
"I won't."
"It's a waste of time, I assure you. Besides, it's mere vanity. It'sonly because everybody likes you--so you think that I should too."
"Between us, we are getting at my character at last," observed Brookwith some asperity. "You've discovered my vanity, now. By-and-by weshall find out some more good qualities."
"Perhaps. Each one will be a step in our acquaintance, you know. Stepsmay lead down, as well as up. We are walking down hill on this roadjust now, and it's steep. Look at that unfortunate mule dragging thatcart up hill towards us! That's like trying to be friends, against odds.I wish the man would not beat the beast like that, though! What brutesthese people are!"
Her dark blue eyes fixed themselves keenly on the sight, and the pupilsgrew wide and angry. The cart was a hundred yards away, coming up theroad, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and drawn by one wretched mule.The huge carter was sprawling on the front sacks, yelling a tunelesschant at the top of his voice. He was a black-haired man, with a hideousmouth, and his face was red with wine. As he yelled his song he floggedhis miserable beast with a heavy whip, accenting his howls with cruelblows. Clare grew pale with anger as she came nearer and saw it all moredistinctly. The mule's knees bent nearly double at every violent step,its wide eyes were bright red all round, its white tongue hung out, andit gasped for breath. The road was stony, too, besides being steep, forit had been lately mended and not rolled.
"Brute!" exclaimed Clare, in a low voice, and her face grew paler.
Johnstone said nothing, and his face did not change as they advanced.
"Don't you see?" cried the young girl. "Can't you do anything? Can'tyou stop him?"
"Oh yes. I think I can do that," answered Brook indifferently. "It israther rough on the mule."
"Rough! It's brutal, it's beastly, it's cowardly, it's perfectlyinhuman!"
At that moment the unfortunate animal stumbled, struggled to recoveritself as the lash descended pitilessly upon its thin flanks, and thenfell headlong and tumbled upon its side. The heavy cart pulled back,half turning, so that the shafts were dragged sideways across the mule,whose weight prevented the load from rolling down hill. The carrierstopped singing and swore, beating the beast with all his might, as itlay still gasping for breath.
"Ah, assassin! Ah, carrion! I will teach thee! Curses on the dead of thyhouse!" he roared.
Brook and Clare were coming nearer.
"That's not very intelligent of the fellow," observed Johnstoneindifferently. "He had much better get down."
"Oh, stop it, stop it!" cried the young girl, suffering acutely for thehelpless creature.
But the man had apparently recognised the impossibility of producing anyimpression unless he descended from his perch. He threw the whip to theground and slid off the sacks. He stood looking at the mule for amoment, and then kicked it in the back with all his might. Then, just asJohnstone and Clare came up, he went round to the back of the cart,walking unsteadily, for he was evidently drunk. The two stopped by theparapet and looked on.
"He's going to unload," said Johnstone. "That's sensible, at allevents."
The sacks, as usual in Italy, were bound to the cart by cords, whichwere fast in front, but which wound upon a heavy spindle at the back.The spindle had three holes in it, in which staves were thrust aslevers, to turn it and hold the ropes taut. Two of the staves weretightly pressed against the load, while the third stood nearly uprightin its hole.
The man took the third stave, a bar of elm four feet long and as thickas a man's wrist, and came round to the mule again on the side away fromClare and Johnstone. He lifted the weapon high in air, and almost beforethey realised what horror he was perpetrating he had struck three orfour tremendous blows upon the creature's back, making as many bleedingwounds. The mule kicked and shivered violently, and its eyes were almoststarting from its head.
Johnstone came up first, caught the stave in air as it was about todescend again, wrenched it out of the man's hands, and hurled it overClare's head, across the parapet and into the sea. The man fell back astep, and his face grew purple with rage. He roared out a volley ofhorrible oaths, in a dialect perfectly incomprehensible even to Clare,who knew Italian well.
"You needn't yell like that, my good man," said Johnstone, smiling athim.
The man was big and strong, and drunk. He clenched his fists, and madefor his adversary, head down, in the futile Italian fashion. TheEnglishman stepped aside, landed a left-handed blow behind his ear, andfollowed it up with a tremendous kick, which sent the fellow upon hisface in the ditch under the rocks. Clare looked on, and her eyesbrightened singularly, for she had fighting blood in her veins. The manseemed stunned, and lay still where he had fallen. Johnstone turned tothe fallen mule, which lay bleeding and gasping under the shafts, and hebegan to unbuckle the harness.
"Could you put a big stone behind the wheel?" he asked, as Clare triedto help him.
He knew that the cart must roll back if it were not blocked, for he hadnoticed how it stood. Clare looked about for a stone, picked one up bythe roadside, and went to the back of the cart, while Johnstone pattedthe mule's head, and busied himself with the buckles of the harness,bending low as he did so. Clare also bent down, trying to force thestone under the wheel, and did not notice that the carter was sitting upby the roadside, feeling for something in his pocket.
An instant later he was on his feet. When Clare stood up, he wasstepping softly up behind Johnstone. As he moved, she saw that he had anopen clasp-knife in his right hand. Johnstone was still bending downunconscious of his danger. The young girl was light on her feet andquick, and not cowardly. The man was before her, halfway between her andBrook. She sprang with all her might, threw her arms round the drunkenman's neck from behind, and dragged him backward. He struck wildlybehind him with the knife, and roared out curses.
"Quick!" cried Clare, in her high, clear voice. "He's got a knife!Quick!"
But Johnstone had heard their steps, and was already upon him frombefore, while the young girl's arms tightened round his neck frombehind. The fellow struck about him wildly with his blade, staggeringbackwards as Clare dragged upon him.
"Let go, or you'll fall!" Brook shouted to her.
As he spoke, dodging the knife, he struck the man twice in the face,left and right, in an earnest, business-like way. Clare caught herselfby the wheel of the car
t as she sprang aside, almost falling under theman's weight. A moment later, Brook was kneeling on his chest, havingthe knife in his hand and holding it near the carter's throat.
"Lie still!" he said rather quietly, in English. "Give me the halter,please!" he said to Clare, without looking up. "It's hanging to theshaft there in a coil."
Kneeling on the man's chest--to tell the truth, he was badly stunned,though not unconscious--Brook took two half-hitches with the halterround one wrist, passed the line under his neck as he lay, and hauled onit till the arm came under his side, then hitched the other wrist,passed the line back, hauled on it, and finally took two turns round thethroat. Clare watched the operation, very pale and breathing hard.
"He's drunk," observed Johnstone. "Otherwise I wouldn't tie him up, youknow. Now, if you move," he said in English to his prisoner, "you'llstrangle yourself."
Thereupon he rose, forced the fellow to roll over, and hitched the fallof the line round both wrists again, and made it fast, so that the manlay, with his head drawn back by his own hands, which he could not movewithout tightening the rope round his neck.
"He's frightened now," said Brook. "Let's get the poor mule out ofthat."
In a few minutes he got the wretched beast free. It was ready enough torise as soon as it felt that it could do so, and it struggled to itsfeet, badly hurt by the beating and bleeding in many places, but notseriously injured. The carter watched them as he lay on the road, halfstrangled, and cursed them in a choking voice.
"And now, what in the world are we going to do with them?" asked Brook,rubbing the mule's nose. "It's a pretty bad case," he continued,thoughtfully. "The mule can't draw the load, the carter can't be allowedto beat the mule, and we can't afford to let the carter have his head.What the dickens are we to do?"
He laughed a little. Then he suddenly looked hard at Clare, as thoughremembering something.
"It was awfully plucky of you to jump on him in that way," he said."Just at the right moment, too, by Jove! That devil would have got at meif you hadn't stopped him. Awfully plucky, upon my word! And I'mtremendously obliged, Miss Bowring, indeed I am!"
"It's nothing to be grateful for, it seems to me," Clare answered. "Isuppose there's nothing to be done but to sit down and wait untilsomebody comes. It's a lonely road, of course, and we may wait a longtime."
"I say," exclaimed Johnstone, "you've torn your frock rather badly! Lookat it!"
She drew her skirt round with her hand. There were long, clean rents inthe skirt, on her right side.
"It was his knife," she said, thoughtfully surveying the damage. "Hekept trying to get at me with it. I'm sorry, for I haven't another sergeskirt with me."
Then she felt herself blushing, and turned away.
"I'll just pin it up," she said, and she disappeared behind the cartrather precipitately.
"By Jove! You have pretty good nerves!" observed Johnstone, more tohimself than to her. "Shut up!" he cried to the carter, who was swearingagain. "Stop that noise, will you?"
He made a step angrily towards the man, for the sight of the slit frockhad roused him again, when he thought what the knife might have done.The fellow was silent instantly, and lay quite still, for he knew thathe should strangle himself if he moved.
"I'll have you in prison before night," continued Johnstone, speakingEnglish to him. "Oh yes! the _carabinieri_ will come, and you will go to_galera_--do you understand that?"
He had picked up the words somewhere. The man began to moan and pray.
"Stop that noise!" cried Brook, with slow emphasis.
He was not far wrong in saying that the carabineers would come. Theypatrol the roads day and night, in pairs, as they patrol every high roadand every mountain path in Italy, all the year round. And just then, farup the road down which Johnstone and Clare had come, two of themappeared in sight, recognisable a mile away by their snow-whitecrossbelts and gleaming accoutrements. There are twelve or fourteenthousand of them in the country, trained soldiers and picked men, by allodds the finest corps in the army. Until lately no man could serve inthe carabineers who could not show documentary evidence that neither henor his father nor his mother had ever been in prison even for thesmallest offence. They are feared and respected, and it is they who haveso greatly reduced brigandage throughout the country.
Clare came back to Johnstone's side, having done what she could to pinthe rents together.
"It's all right now," she cried. "Here come the carabineers. They willtake the man and his cart to the next village. Let me talk to them--Ican speak Italian, you know."
She was pale again, and very quiet. She had noticed that her handstrembled violently when she was pinning her frock, though they had beensteady enough when they had gone round the man's throat.
When the patrol men came up, she stepped forward and explained what hadhappened, clearly and briefly. There was the bleeding mule, Johnstonestanding before it and rubbing its dusty nose; there was the knife;there was the man. With a modest gesture she showed them where her frockhad been cut to shreds. Johnstone made remarks in English, reflectingupon the Italian character, which she did not think fit to translate.
The carabineers were silent fellows with big moustaches--the one verydark, the other as fair as a Swede--they were clean, strong, sober men,with frank eyes, and they said very little. They asked the strangers'names, and Johnstone, at Clare's request, wrote her name on his card,and the address in Amalfi. One of them knew the carter for a badcharacter.
"We will take care of him and his cart," said the dark man, who was thesuperior. "The signori may go in quiet."
They untied the rope that bound the man. He rose trembling, and stood onhis feet, for he knew that he was in their power. But they showed nointention of putting him in handcuffs.
"Turn the cart round!" said the dark man.
They helped the carter to do it, and blocked it with stones.
"Put in the mule!" was the next order, and the carabineers held up theshafts while the man obeyed.
Then both saluted Johnstone and Clare, and shouldered their shortcarbines, which had stood against the parapet.
"Forward!" said the dark man, quietly.
The carter took the mule by the head and started it gently enough. Thecreature understood, and was glad to go down hill; the wheels creaked,the cart moved, and the party went off, one of the carabineers marchingon either side.
Clare drew a long breath as she stood looking after them for a moment.
"Let us go home," she said at last, and turned up the road.
For some minutes they walked on in silence.
"I think you probably saved my life at the risk of yours, Miss Bowring,"said Johnstone, at last, looking up. "Thank you very much."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the young girl, and she tried to laugh.
"But you were telling me that you were not combative--that you alwaysavoided a fight, you know, and that you were so mild, and all that. Fora very mild man, Mr. Johnstone, who hates fighting, you are a good 'manof your hands,' as they say in the _Morte d'Arthur_."
"Oh, I don't call that a fight!" answered Johnstone, contemptuously."Why, my collar isn't even crumpled. As for my hands, if I could find aspring I would wash them, after touching that fellow."
"That's the advantage of wearing gloves," observed Clare, looking at herown.
They were both very young, and though they knew that they had been ingreat danger they affected perfect indifference about it to each other,after the manner of true Britons. But each admired the other, and Brookwas suddenly conscious that he had never known a woman whom, in someways, he thought so admirable as Clare Bowring, but both felt a singularconstraint as they walked homeward.
"Do you know?" Clare began, when they were near Amalfi, "I think we hadbetter say nothing about it to my mother--that is, if you don't mind."
"By all means," answered Brook. "I'm sure I don't want to talk aboutit."
"No, and my mother is very nervous--you know--about my going off to walkwithout her. Oh
, not about you--with anybody. You see, I'd been very illbefore I came here."
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