But then he spoke to the cow.

“Poor dear—­poor dear,” he repeated.  He patted her soft warm neck, and scratched her between the horns and along the dewlap.

“Poor dear—­poor dear.”

The cow lifted up her head, and rested her great chin on Peter’s shoulder, breathing upon his face.

“Yes, you know that we are companions in misery, don’t you?” he said.  “They have taken my calf from me too—­though my calf, indeed, was only a calf in an extremely metaphorical sense—­and it never was exactly mine, anyhow—­I daresay it’s belonged from the beginning to another man.  You, at least, have n’t that gall and wormwood added to your cup.  And now you must really try to pull yourself together.  It’s no good crying.  And besides, there are more calves in the sea than have ever been taken from it.  You’ll have a much handsomer and fatter one next time.  And besides, you must remember that your loss subserves someone else’s gain—­the farmer would never have done it if it hadn’t been to his advantage.  If you ’re an altruist, that should comfort you.  And you must n’t mind Marietta,—­you must n’t mind her laughter.  Marietta is a Latin.  The Latin conception of what is laughable differs by the whole span of heaven from the Teuton.  You and I are Teutons.”

“Teutons—?” questioned Marietta wrinkling her brow.

“Yes—­Germanic,” said he.

“But I thought the Signorino was English?”

“So he is.”

“But the cow is not Germanic.  White, with black horns, that is the purest Roman breed, Signorino.”

“Fa niente,” he instructed her.  “Cows and Englishmen, and all such sentimental cattle, including Germans, are Germanic.  Italians are Latin—­with a touch of the Goth and Vandal.  Lions and tigers growl and fight because they’re Mohammedans.  Dogs still bear without abuse the grand old name of Sycophant.  Cats are of the princely line of Persia, and worship fire, fish, and flattery—­as you may have noticed.  Geese belong indifferently to any race you like—­they are cosmopolitans; and I’ve known here and there a person who, without distinction of nationality, was a duck.  In fact, you’re rather by way of being a duck yourself:  And now,” he perorated, “never deny again that I can talk nonsense with an aching heart.”

“All the same,” insisted Marietta, “it is very comical to see a cow weep.”

“At any rate,” retorted Peter, “it is not in the least comical to hear a hyaena laugh.”

“I have never heard one,” said she.

“Pray that you never may.  The sound would make an old woman of you.  It’s quite blood-curdling.”

“Davvero?” said Marietta.

“Davvero,” he assured her.

And meanwhile the cow stood there, with her head on his shoulder, silently weeping, weeping.

He gave her a farewell rub along the nose.

“Good-bye,” he said.  “Your breath is like meadowsweet.  So dry your tears, and set your hopes upon the future.  I ’ll come and see you again to-morrow, and I ’ll bring you some nice coarse salt.  Good-bye.”