“Dearest Valeria!”

“Hush!  Yes.”

“Hand me that cane—­it is my fishing-rod, you know—­through this hole; you can leave the sketch-book and paint-box under the tree that the donkey fell against,—­I will call for them some day soon.  And, Valeria, don’t you think we could make our lips meet through this beastly hole?”

“Impossible.  There’s my hand; heavens!  Croppo would murder me if he knew.  Now keep quiet till I give the signal.  Oh, do let go my hand!”

“Remember, Valeria, bellissima, carissima, whatever happens, that I love you.”

But I don’t think she heard this, and I went and sat on the onions because I could see the hole better, and the smell of them kept me awake.

It was at least two hours after this that the faint light appeared at the hole in the wall, and a hand was pushed through.  I rushed at the finger-tips.

“Here’s your fishing-rod,” she said when I had released them, and she had passed me my air-gun.  “Now be very careful how you tread.  There is one asleep across the door, but you can open it about two feet.  Then step over him; then make for a gleam of moonlight that comes through the crack of the front door, open it very gently and slip out. Addio, caro Inglese; mind you wait till you hear me snoring.”

Then she lingered, and I heard a sigh.  “What is it, sweet Valeria?” and I covered her hand with kisses.

“I wish Croppo had blue eyes like you.”

This was murmured so softly that I may have been mistaken, but I’m nearly sure that was what she said; then she drew softly away, and two minutes afterwards I heard her snoring.  As the first sound issued from her lovely nostrils, I stealthily approached the door, gently pushed it open; stealthily stepped over a space which I trusted cleared the recumbent figure that I could not see; cleared him; stole gently on for the streak of moonlight; trod squarely on something that seemed like an outstretched hand, for it gave under my pressure and produced a yell; felt that I must now rush for my life; dashed the door open, and down the path with four yelling ruffians at my heels.  I was a pretty good runner, but the moon was behind a cloud, and the way was rocky,—­moreover, there must have been a short cut I did not know, for one of my pursuers gained upon me with unaccountable rapidity—­he appeared suddenly within ten yards of my heels.  The others were at least a hundred yards behind.  I had nothing for it but to turn round, let him almost run against the muzzle of my air-gun, pull the trigger, and see him fall in his tracks.  It was the work of a second, but it checked my pursuers.  They had heard no noise, but they found something that they did not bargain for, and lingered a moment, then they took up the chase with redoubled fury.  But I had too good a start; and where the path joined the main road, instead of turning down towards the town, as they