"The improvisatore?" said Mrs. Cleveland. "I did not understand that he was actually one of the band."
"But I did," pursued Horace, in his overbearing manner; "and I saw the master of this very house, who, by the way, looks a ruffian if ever there was one, in close conference with this very Raphael, who has doubtless come here for no good."
Mrs. Cleveland pushed away the plate of untasted food before her, nervous anxiety having taken from the weary lady all inclination to eat. Horace, to whom a little danger was rather a pleasant excitement, had already half demolished the omelet.
"The signora is not well, the signora must not travel further to-day," suggested Giuseppina.
Horace glanced up hastily at his mother; but seeing on her anxious countenance nothing to excite his fears for her health, he impatiently motioned to the girl to quit the room, as he felt more at his ease when her black eyes were not watching his lips, Giuseppina with lingering step withdrew.
"I wish that you would eat, mother; you know that you will be quite exhausted, if you don't," cried Horace in a tone of vexation.
"I can't travel in the dark—I can't go to be waylaid—robbed—perhaps—"
"Don't you see," cried Horace, striking the handle of his spoon on the table to give more force to his argument, "that if we stay here we are just as likely to come to grief? Have you never heard or read of horrid little wayside inns kept by robbers in disguise; of beds contrived to fall down upon travelers and crush them; of stealthy footsteps at night—and all that sort of thing? Now this seems to be exactly the place for such an unpleasant adventure."
"Oh, why did we ever come to Calabria?" exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, sinking back in her chair.
Horace felt some self-reproach for thus adding to the terrors of his mother. He hastily finished his omelet, and said in a more reassuring voice—