Emboldened by impunity, I was tempted one day to follow up a most romantic glen in search of a sketch, when I came upon a remarkably handsome peasant girl, driving a donkey before her loaded with wood.  My sudden appearance on the narrow path made the animal shy against a projecting piece of rock, off which he rebounded to the edge of the path, which, giving way, precipitated him and his load down the ravine.  He was brought up unhurt against a bush some twenty feet below, the fagots of wood being scattered in his descent in all directions.  For a moment the girl’s large fierce eyes flashed upon me with anger; but the impetuosity with which I went headlong after the donkey, with a view of repairing my error, and the absurd attempts I made to reverse the position of his feet, which were in the air, converted her indignation into a hearty fit of laughter, as, seeing that the animal was apparently uninjured, she scrambled down to my assistance.  By our united efforts we at last succeeded in hoisting the donkey up to the path, and then I collected the wood and helped her to load it again—­an operation which involved a frequent meeting of hands, and of the eyes, which had now lost the ferocity that had startled me at first, and seemed getting more soft and beaming every time I glanced at them, till at last, producing my sketch-book, I ventured to remark, “Ah, signorina, what a picture you would make!  Now that the ass is loaded, let me draw you before we part, that I may carry away the recollection of the loveliest woman I have seen.”

“First draw the donkey,” she replied, “that I may carry away a recollection of the galantuomo who first upset him over the bank, and then helped me to load him.”

Smiling at this ambiguous compliment, I gave her the sketch she desired, and was about to claim my reward, when she abruptly remarked—­

“There is not time now; it is getting late, and I must not linger, as I have still an hour to go before reaching home.  How is it that you are not afraid to be wandering in this solitary glen by yourself?  Do you not know the risks?”

“I have heard of them, but I do not believe in them,” I said; “besides, I should be poor plunder for robbers.”

“But you have friends, who would pay to ransom you, I suppose, if you were captured?”

“My life is not worth a hundred scudi to any of them,” I replied, laughing; “but I am willing to forego the pleasure of drawing you now, bellissima, if you will tell me where you live, and let me come and paint you there at my leisure.”

“You’re a brave one,” she said, with a little laugh; “there is not another man in all Ascoli who would dare to pay me a visit without an escort of twenty soldiers.  But I am too grateful for your amiability to let you run such a risk. Addio, Signer Inglese.  There are many reasons why I can’t let you draw my picture, but I am not ungrateful, see!”—­and she offered me her cheek, on which I instantly imprinted a chaste and fraternal salute.