Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 1).djvu/68

 dazzled by the bright rays of the morning sun. In a towering rage with the contrabandists, with himself for having slept, but above all with the girl to whom he attributed this treachery, he hurried to the door, the bolt of which yielded easily to his pressure, and stepped out into the other room.

He found Fenice there alone, sitting quietly by the fire, as though she had long been expecting him. Every trace of the stormy scenes of the day before had left her face; no sign of any grief, and no mark of any painfully acquired composure, met his stern glance.

"This is your fault," he said, angrily, "my sleeping beyond the time."

"Yes, it is," she answered, indifferently. "You were tired. You will reach Pistoja early enough, if you do not need to meet your murderers before the afternoon."

"I did not ask you to take heed of my fatigue. Do you still mean to force yourself on me? It will avail you nothing, girl. Where are my men?"

"Gone."

"Gone? Would you make a fool of me? Where are they? As if they would go away before I paid them!" And he strode rapidly to the door, thinking to leave.

Fenice remained sitting where she was, and said, in the same placid voice: "I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep, and also that I would accompany you down the mountain myself; for my supply of wine is at an end, and I must buy fresh at about an hour's distance from Pistoja."

For a moment he was speechless with rage. "No," he burst out at last, "not with you; never again with you! It is absurd for you to think that you can still entangle me in your smooth meshes. We are now more completely parted than ever. I despise you, that you should think me soft and weak enough to be won by these poor devices. I will not go with you! Let one of your men go with me; and here—pay yourself what you gave to the contrabandists."

He flung a purse to her, and opened the door to look for some one who could show him the way down. "Do not trouble yourself," she said, "you will not find any of the men; they are all in the mountains. And there is nobody in Treppi who can be of use to you. Poor feeble old women and men, and children who have to be taken care of themselves. If you do not believe me—go and look!"

"And altogether," she went on, as he, in vexation and anger, stood undecided in the doorway, turning his back to her, "why does it seem to you so impossible and so dangerous for me to be your guide? I had dreams last night, from which I can tell that you are not destined for me. It is true enough that I still have a liking for you, and it would be a pleasure to me to have a few more hours' talk with you. But I do not, on that account, wish to intrude. You are free to go from me for ever, and wherever you will, to death or to life. Only I have so arranged it that I may walk beside you part of the way. I swear to you, if it will ease your mind, that it will only be part of the way—on my honour, not as far as Pistoja. Only just until I have put you in the right direction. For if you were to go away alone, you would lose your way, and would neither get forward nor backward. Surely you must remember that, from your first journey in the mountains."

"Plague upon it!" muttered he, biting his lips. He saw, however, that the sun was getting higher, and all things well considered, what grave cause for fear had he? He turned to her, and thought, from the indifferent look in her large eyes, that he could take it for granted there was no treachery hidden in her words. She really seemed to him to be a different person from the day before; and there was almost a feeling of discontent mingled with his surprise as he was forced to allow that her fit of grief and passion on the preceding day had passed away so soon, and left no trace. He looked at her for some time, but she did not in any way arouse his suspicions.

"Well," he said dryly, "since you have become so very prudent, let us start. Come!"

Without any particular sign of delight she got up, and said: "We must eat first; we shall get nothing for many hours." She put a dish before him and a pitcher, and ate something herself, standing at the hearth, but did not touch a drop of wine. But he, to get it over, ate some spoonfuls, dashed down the wine, and lit his cigar from the ashes on the hearth. All this time he had not deigned to look at her, but when he chanced to look up, standing near her, he saw a strange red in her cheeks, and something like triumph in her eyes. She now rose hurriedly, seized the pitcher, and, flinging it on the stone floor, shattered it at a blow. "No one shall ever drink out of it again," she said, "after your lips have touched it."

He started up in alarm; and, for a second,