“Signorina, I don’t know names.  Behold, that Beppo is approaching like the snow!  What I entreat is, that the signorina will wait a little for the English party, if they come, so that I may have something to tell my patron.  To invent upon nothing is most unpleasant, and the Signor Antonio can soon perceive whether one swims with corks.  Signorina, I can dance on one rope—­I am a man.  I am not a midge—­I cannot dance upon nothing.”

The days of Vittoria’s youth had been passed in England.  It was not unknown to her that old English friends were on the way to Italy; the recollection of a quiet and a buried time put a veil across her features.  She was perplexed by the mention of the Austrian officer by Luigi, as one may be who divines the truth too surely, but will not accept it for its loathsomeness.  There were Englishmen in the army of Austria.  Could one of them be this one whom she had cared for when she was a girl?  It seemed hatefully cruel to him to believe it.  She spoke to Agostino, begging him to remain with her on the height awhile to see whether the Signor Antonio-Pericles was right; to see whether Luigi was a truth-teller; to see whether these English persons were really coming.  “Because,” she said, “if they do come, it will at once dissolve any suspicions you may have of this Luigi.  And I always long so much to know if the Signor Antonio is correct.  I have never yet known him to be wrong.”

“And you want to see these English,” said Agostino.  He frowned.

“Only to hear them.  They shall not recognize me.  I have now another name; and I am changed.  My hat is enough to hide me.  Let me hear them talk a little.  You and the Signor Carlo will stay with me, and when they come, if they do come, I will remain no longer than just sufficient to make sure.  I would refuse to know any of them before the night of the fifteenth; I want my strength too much.  I shall have to hear a misery from them; I know it, I feel it; it turns my blood.  But let me hear their voices!  England is half my country, though I am so willing to forget her and give all my life to Italy.  Stay with me, dear friend, my best father! humour me, for you know that I am always charming when I am humoured.”

Agostino pressed his finger on a dimple in her cheeks.  “You can afford to make such a confession as that to a greybeard.  The day is your own.  Bear in mind that you are so situated that it will be prudent for you to have no fresh relations, either with foreigners or others, until your work is done,—­in which, my dear child, may God bless you!”

“I pray to him with all my might,” Vittoria said in reply.