“I know,” said the boy meekly. “It was stupid to picnic in such a place, but we had come fast” (with this he had the grace to look a little shame-faced, knowing that I knew why he had come fast) “and we were tired. It was so beautiful here, and seemed so peaceful that we never thought of danger, at this time of day. We had just begun to pack up our things to move on again, when there was a rustling behind us, the crackling of a branch under a foot, and that wretch sprang out. I was frightened, but—I hate being a coward, and I just made up my mind he shouldn’t have our things. Innocentina screamed, and I struck at the man with the stick she uses to drive Fanny and Souris. Then he got out his knife, and Innocentina screamed a good deal more, and—I don’t quite know what did happen after that, till you came.”
“Well, I’m thankful I was near,” I said. “And I must say that, though it was foolhardy to make such a display of valuables, you were a plucky little David to defend your belongings against such a Goliath. I admire you for it.”
The boy flushed with pleasure. “Oh, do you really think I was plucky?” he asked. “Everything was so confused, I wasn’t sure. I’d rather be plucky than anything. Thank you for saying that, almost as much as for saving our lives. And—and I’m dreadfully sorry I called you a—brute, last night.”
“It was only because I called you a brat. I fully deserved it, and we’ll cry quits, if you don’t mind. Now, I’d better see how the fainting lady is, and then I’ll help you get your things together. How are the knee and arm?”
“Nothing much wrong with them after all, I think,” said the boy, limping a little as he walked by my side back to the road, where I had left Innocentina with Joseph.
We had taken but a few steps, when they both appeared, the young woman white under her tan, her eyes big and frightened. She was herself again, very thankful for so good an end to the adventure, and volubly ashamed of the weakness to which she had given way. In the midst of her explanations and enquiries, however, I noticed that she took time now and then to throw a glance at my muleteer, not scornful and defiant, as on the day before, but grateful and mildly feminine. In conclave we agreed to say nothing in Aosta of the grim encounter, lest our lives should be made miserable by gendarmes and much red tape. But Joseph, less diplomatic than I, had not scrupled to seize the moment of Innocentina’s recovery to pour into her ears the story of the escaped criminal, and the excitement in which he had plunged the neighbouring country. She was anxious to hurry on as quickly as possible, lest night should overtake her party on the way, and, still pale and tremulous, she sprang eagerly to the work of gathering up the scattered belongings. While she and Joseph put the tea-basket to rights, the boy and I rearranged the gorgeous fittings of the bag, and discovered that not even a single bottle-top was missing.