Opening the window, Hedwig called to the Italian by name, and said, on receiving his answer: 

“Please not to shoot any more!”

“Why not?” came the reply in the mellow voice of the Italian.

“Come in and you’ll learn.”  But she shut the window to intimate that he was to enter the house by the door as he had issued, and hastily returned to her mistress.

The latter had tottered to the side-board, and seized a decanter, but, in the act of pouring out a glass of water, she paused suspiciously.

“Is this good to drink?” she warily inquired.

“Of course, though you are quite right—­they do juggle with a lot of queer acids and the like dangerous stuff here!  They give me the warning sometimes after their swim-posiums, as they call the sociables, not to touch anything till they come down, for poisons are about.  Ugh!  But do not drink so much cold water so early in the morning—­it is unhealthy.  If it were only good beer, now, it would not matter! Ach, Muechen!” and Hedwig vulgarly smacked her lips.

“After my illness I have been always thirsty, and, sometimes, I seem to have infernal fires in my bosom!” sighed Madame Clemenceau, putting down the glass with a hand so hot that the crystal was clouded with steam.

Her teeth chattered, as a sudden chill followed the flush, and Hedwig shrank back in alarm—­the beautiful face became transformed into such a close likeness to a wolf’s.  “You need not be scared any more, for he has come into the house.  Here he is, too!” and she sprang to the door, as well to open it to M. Antonino, as to screen her mistress until she cared to reveal her presence.

Perhaps it was application to the work and not pining over the absence of Cesarine, but the Italian showed evidence of sleeplessness and his pallor had the unpleasant cast of the Southerners when out of spirits.

His eyes were enfevered and his lips dry and cracked.  He carried a handsome fowling-piece, which presented, at first glance, no feature of dissimilarity to the usual pattern except that trigger and hammer were absent, and the rim of the barrel was not blackened from the recent discharge.

“What did you stop me for when I had hardly more than begun my sport and practice?” he inquired.

“Put down that devil’s own gun, sir monsieur,” said Hedwig, “if you please.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” said he, while obeying by standing the rifle in a corner.  “I thought you Germans were all daughters or sweethearts of soldiers.”

“Ay, and most of us women would make as good soldiers as they have here; but I was speaking because you gave a shock to madame.”

Stepping aside, Antonino discovered Madame Clemenceau, who smiled softly.

“Oh, madame!” ejaculated Antonino, at the height of astonishment, not unmixed with gladness.  “I beg your pardon; I am very sorry—­I mean glad—­that is, I was not aware—­if I had had any idea you were home—­”