“Where did you learn to understand women, my boy?” I asked.

“I do not understand women in general,” he answered, “but I understand very well the only woman who exists for me personally.  I know that she is the soul of honour, and that at the same time she has enough common sense to perceive the circumstances of the situation.”

“But how will you make sure of not being overtaken?” I objected, making a last feeble stand against his plan.

“That is simple enough.  My countryman from Subiaco knows every inch of these hills.  He says that the pass above Fillettino is impracticable for any animals save men, mules, and donkeys.  A horse would roll down at every turn.  My mules are the best of their kind, and there are none like them here.  By sunrise I shall be over the Serra and well on the way to Ceprano, or whatever place I may choose for joining the railroad.”

“And I?  Will you leave me here to be murdered by that Prussian devil?” I asked, in some alarm.

“Why, no, padre mio.  If you like, you can start for Rome at sunset, or as soon as I return from meeting the count; or you can get on your donkey and go up the pass, where we shall overtake you.  Nobody will harm you, in your disguise, and your donkey is even more surefooted than my mules.  It will be a bright night, too, for the moon is full.”

“Well, well, Nino,” said I at last, “I suppose you will have your own way, as you always do in the world.  And if it must be so, I will go up the pass alone, for I am not afraid at all.  It would be against all the proprieties that you should be riding through a wild country alone at night with the young lady you intend to marry; and if I go with you there will be nothing to be said, for I am a very proper person, and hold a responsible position in Rome.  But for charity’s sake, do not undertake anything of this kind again—­”

“Again?” exclaimed Nino, in surprise.  “Do you expect me to spend my life in getting married,—­not to say in eloping?”

“Well, I trust that you will have enough of it this time.”

“I cannot conceive that when a man has once married the woman he loves he should ever look at another,” said Nino, gravely.

“You are a most blessed fellow,” I exclaimed.

Nino found my writing materials, which consisted of a bad steel pen, some coarse ruled paper, and a wretched little saucer of ink, and began writing an epistle to the contessina.  I watched him as he wrote, and I smoked a little to pass the time.  As I looked at him I came to the conclusion that to-day, at least, he was handsome.  His thick hair curled about his head, and his white skin was as pale and clear as milk.  I thought that his complexion had grown less dark than it used to be, perhaps from being so much in the theatre at night.  That takes the dark blood out of the cheeks.  But any woman would have looked twice at him.  Besides, there was, as there is now, a certain marvellous neatness and spotlessness about his dress; but for his dusty boots you would not have guessed he had been travelling.  Poor Nino.  When he had not a penny in the world but what he earned by copying music, he used to spend it all with the washerwoman, so that Mariuccia was often horrified, and I reproved him for the extravagance.