“What is your name?” was his first question.

Lucia shook her head.

“Your name?” he persisted.  “Marie, Louise, Josephine?”

“No, Senor,” Lucia replied bewildered.

“Well then, what is it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your name?”

“No, Senor.”

“Your name?  Have you no sense—­stupid!” The Captain’s patience was fast giving way.

Now to call an Italian stupid is the worst possible insult, and Lucia’s cheeks flushed hotly.  She was very angry, and she determined not to reply now at any cost.  She shook her head therefore, and a very stubborn and unpromising light came into her brown eyes.

The Captain looked at her in disgust.

“Well, I suppose your name does not matter anyway,” he said gruffly.  “Where do you live?”

Another shake of the small black head, and an expressive shrug.

“You live in Cellino, so why not say so?  Come, no more sulking.  If you won’t answer me of your own free will, you must be made to answer.”

“No, Senor,” Lucia smiled provokingly.

“No—­what in thunder do you mean?”

“No, Senor,” there was not a trace of impertinence in her face.

The officer looked at her in despair.

“Do you, or don’t you understand what I am saying?” he demanded.

“No, Senor,” Lucia reiterated.

“Where is the soldier who found this girl?” the Captain shouted to an orderly.

Lucia did not understand what he said, but she knew that her captor was well out of sight with his pick and shovel by now, and in all probability would not return and give her away, and she was beginning to enjoy the part of a “stupid.”

Just as the Captain turned to continue his questioning, Garibaldi, who had been grazing about unmolested at a little distance from the shed, saw Lucia and came bounding over to her.  In her delight at finding her young mistress she very nearly succeeded in butting over the officer.

Lucia had difficulty in repressing a smile, but she put her arms around the goat’s neck and patted her.

“Does that animal belong to you?” The Captain demanded, puffing a little in the effort to retain his balance.

Lucia only smiled and nodded.  Garibaldi kicked up her heels in an ecstasy of joy and sent the soft mud flying.  The Captain’s anger broke all bounds.

“Take that animal and shoot her,” he demanded, but before the soldier could obey, he withdrew the order.  “Tie her to the tree instead, we may be able to milk her,” he said.

The soldier nodded and advanced towards Garibaldi with ponderous assurance, but Garibaldi was not going to be tied, she preferred her freedom.  She was not, however, unwilling to play a friendly game of tag; it was her favorite sport and she was very proficient in it.  When the big soldier would come within reach of her, she would lower her head and duck under his arm, and before the astonished pursuer could collect his wits and look around, she would be browsing innocently close by.