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 cl.u.s.ter 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 pa.s.sed 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.