But they were quite a hundred yards away, and did not hear.

“Do you wish them to come back?” asked Peter.

“Yes—­of course,” she answered, with a shade of impatience.

He put his fingers to his lips (you know the schoolboy accomplishment), and gave a long whistle.

That the children did hear.

They halted, and turned round, looking, enquiring.

“Come back—­come back!” called the Duchessa, raising her hand, and beckoning.

They came back.

“The pathetic little imps,” she murmured while they were on the way.

The boy was a sturdy, square-built fellow, of twelve, thirteen, with a shock of brown hair, brown cheeks, and sunny brown eyes; with a precocious air of doggedness, of responsibility.  He wore an old tail-coat, the tail-coat of a man, ragged, discoloured, falling to his ankles.

The girl was ten or eleven, pale, pinched; hungry, weary, and sorry looking.  Her hair too had been brown, upon a time; but now it was faded to something near the tint of ashes, and had almost the effect of being grey.  Her pale little forehead was crossed by thin wrinkles, lines of pain, of worry, like an old woman’s.

The Duchessa, pushing her bicycle, and followed by Peter, moved down the road, to meet them.  Peter had never been so near to her before—­at moments her arm all but brushed his sleeve.  I think he blessed the children.

“Where are you going?” the Duchessa asked, softly, smiling into the girl’s sad little face.

The girl had shown no fear of Peter; but apparently she was somewhat frightened by this grand lady.  The toes of her bare feet worked nervously in the dust.  She hung her head shyly, and eyed her brother.

But the brother, removing his hat, with the bow of an Italian peasant—­and that is to say, the bow of a courtier—­spoke up bravely.

“To Turin, Nobility.”

He said it in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, quite as he might have said, “To the next farm-house.”

The Duchessa, however, had not bargained for an answer of this measure.  Startled, doubting her ears perhaps, “To—­Turin—!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.

“But—­but Turin—­Turin is hundreds of kilometres from here,” she said, in a kind of gasp.

“Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.

“You are going to Turin—­you two children—­walking—­like that!” she persisted.

“Yes, Excellency.”

“But—­but it will take you a month.”

“Pardon, noble lady,” said the boy.  “With your Excellency’s permission, we were told it should take fifteen days.”

“Where do you come from?” she asked.

“From Bergamo, Excellency.”

“When did you leave Bergamo?”

“Yesterday morning, Excellency.”

“The little girl is your sister?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Have you a mother and father?”