I could not but tell her that in accepting a salute of the kind she little knew what risk she was running; to which she at once replied that a girl in her situation, with a houseful of French soldiers, was indifferent to common dangers.  I told her I was sorry to hear it, and felt obliged to add that I was peculiarly accursed.

“Why,” says she, mighty curious, “whatever have you done, a pretty gentleman like you?”

“My dear,” said I, “I have injured a spotless lady.”  Her reply was to throw her arms about my neck and give me some three or four resounding kisses.  “Bless your innocence,” she cried warmly, “I wish I had been your lady.  Injuries indeed!”

I was moved.  “You are a kind and charitable soul,” I said, “and put the religious of Bologna to shame.  Except from you and a Venetian Jew I promise you that I have met with no humanity upon my travels.”  At this moment she heard herself called from below, and bade me kindly adieu.  “I suppose you are after your lady?” she asked as she turned to leave me.  “Yes,” says I, “that is my pilgrimage—­to make her amends.”  “Well,” says the maid, “be bolder with her than you were with me, or you’ll never do it.  Adieu, sir!” I saw her no more.

I felt myself touched in a lively part—­so quickly is our nature responsive to kindness.  “The embrace of that warm-hearted girl,” I thought as I went on my way, “has put heart into me.  A generous forgiving soul!  And, by a figure, she may stand for that compassionate Aurelia for whom I shall seek until I fall.  Is there no offence which women will not forgive?  Yes, there is one—­the great offence of all:  Pride.  Ah, Beppo, Beppo!” I cried, “my venal Paduan, I was happily inspired when I left thee my purple and linen!” I laughed aloud, and footed the long hill bravely.  It may seem trifling to establish one’s uplifting by the kiss of a poor wench—­but who can explain the ways of the soul?  The wind bloweth where it listeth!  And if that of hers were the kiss of peace?  At any rate, it was kindly meant, and so I kindly received it.  Unknown, lowly benefactress, I salute thee again from afar, after many years.

Breasting the last green steep of the hill, picking my way amid black rocks and dripping fern, I soon came upon the high road whose entry had been barred to me by the soldiers.  I ate my bread, finished my jug of wine, and pushed on so vigorously that by noon I was in the heart of the mountains.  To cut the narrative short, after one cold night in the open and one more day’s march, having surmounted the watershed of Lombardy and Tuscany, I found myself within view of the frontier, saw the guard-house with the red and white posts of the Grand Duchy, and two sentries with muskets walking up and down—­a sharp reminder of difficulties ahead.  Beyond the frontier the road curved about a great bluff of rock and skirted the edge of an abyss.  I could see dimly a far-stretching blue plain with rivers and white villages showing faintly upon it; my heart