And arm-in-arm we sauntered out to the veranda in the most friendly way possible.  Ferrari was completely restored to good humor, and Nina, I thought, was rather relieved to see it.  She was evidently afraid of Ferrari—­a good point for me to remember.  She smiled a welcome to us as we approached, and began to pour out the fragrant coffee.  It was a glorious evening; the moon was already high in the heavens, and the nightingales’ voices echoed softly from the distant woods.  As I seated myself in a low chair that was placed invitingly near that of my hostess, my ears were startled by a long melancholy howl, which changed every now and then to an impatient whine.

“What is that?” I asked, though the question was needless, for I knew the sound.

“Oh, it is that tiresome dog Wyvis,” answered Nina, in a vexed tone.  “He belonged to Fabio.  He makes the evening quite miserable with his moaning.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, after my husband’s death he became so troublesome, roaming all over the house and wailing; and then he would insist on sleeping in Stella’s room close to her bedside.  He really worried me both day and night, so I was compelled to chain him up.”

Poor Wyvis!  He was sorely punished for his fidelity.

“I am very fond of dogs,” I said, slowly, “and they generally take to me with extraordinary devotion.  May I see this one of yours?”

“Oh, certainly!  Guido, will you go and unfasten him?”

Guido did not move; he leaned easily back in his chair sipping his coffee.

“Many thanks,” he answered, with a half laugh; “perhaps you forget that last time I did so he nearly tore me to pieces.  If you do not object, I would rather Giacomo undertook the task.”

“After such an account of the animal’s conduct, perhaps the conte will not care to see him.  It is true enough,” turning to me as she spoke, “Wyvis has taken a great dislike to Signor Ferrari—­and yet he is a good-natured dog, and plays with my little girl all day if she goes to him.  Do you feel inclined to see him?  Yes?” And, as I bowed in the affirmative, she rang a little bell twice, and the butler appeared.

“Giacomo,” she continued, “unloose Wyvis and send him here.”

Giacomo gave me another of those timid questioning glances, and departed to execute his order.  In another five minutes, the howling had suddenly ceased, a long, lithe, black, shadowy creature came leaping wildly across the moonlighted lawn—­Wyvis was racing at full speed.  He paid no heed to his mistress or Ferrari; he rushed straight to me with a yelp of joy.  His huge tail wagged incessantly, he panted thirstily with excitement, he frisked round and round my chair, he abased himself and kissed my feet and hands, he rubbed his stately head fondly against my knee.  His frantic demonstrations of delight were watched by my wife and Ferrari with utter astonishment.  I observed their surprise, and said lightly: