"How did he get away? Did Matteo break his prison, and set him free?"
"Perhaps the soldiers let him off because he sings so fine!" suggested one black-eyed little damsel, with uncombed hair falling in dark masses on each side of her merry brown face.
"I like Raphael; he cured my bad leg, and he speaks so kind," said another.
"But he's a bad man, I know he's a bad man," whispered a thin, sallow child with a solemn look, "he does not bow to the Madonna, nor touch the holy water."
"He does!" exclaimed the former speaker, indignant at so dark an imputation being thrown on his benefactor.
"But he does not," persisted the sallow child; "I've watched him again and again; he never bows to the holy image, nor crosses himself; and I don't believe that he tells his beads, or ever goes to confess. Mother says that he's a wicked man, and prays to none of the saints."
The faintest approach to a smile on the lips of the young Italian alone betrayed that he heard any part of the conversation of which he was the subject.
The attention of the children was now diverted to the travelers who were leaving the inn. "How pale the signora is! Does she not look anxious and frightened?" were the whispers exchanged among the group.
Uneasy and irresolute Mrs. Cleveland certainly was. Horace, who, however faulty in other respects, never concealed anything from his mother, had told her of the warning of Raphael; and as he led her to the carriage, lingering and reluctant, he was warmly combating the idea that the Italian's words should have the slightest effect in influencing their movements.
"Doubtless he is playing into the hands of this Matteo, of whose atrocities we have been hearing, and who will be as savage as a bear at the capture of his son. Common sense tells us that we should put no faith in this stranger; a low musician, a jailbird, a companion of thieves!"