They relapsed into silence again, but there was a strange constraint upon them. The sun's rays were very hot with that sickly heat felt just before a shower. The scent of the narcissus rose insistent and too sweet. Ragna felt uneasy; although Mirko was outwardly the same as he had always been, she divined a change in him, a mysterious subtle change that set him over against her as an enemy from whom she must defend herself. She could not explain to herself this newborn antagonism, she only felt it dimly,—and at the same time there arose riotous within her the call of the springtide, urging her towards him.
The vetturino drew up jingling before the door of an osteria,—that of the "Sora Nanna," the sign proclaimed. Some deal tables and benches stood under the budding pergola, and at them a few contadini on their way to the festa were indulging in modest libations of "vino dei Castelli"—advertised at thirty, forty and fifty centesimi the measure, on placards hanging at the entrance.
As the botte drew up to the door, the hostess, a stout, wholesome looking woman appeared, bowing and wiping her hands on her apron.
"The Signori would descend? Luncheon? Most certainly,—their Excellencies should be served immediately—Maria! wring the neck of a chicken! Would their Excellencies eat in the common room, in the sala, with contadini? There was a most clean and conveniente chamber above, where they would be much better, non è vero?"
She bustled in ahead of them, shooing chickens as she went, and chattering volubly. They followed her through the brick-paved kitchen, gloomy, after the bright light outside. One end of it was taken up by an immense brick stove, in which were sunk numerous wells for charcoal. A large pot bubbled merrily on one of these and most savoury odours arose from a collection of copper stew-pans of all sizes. Hams, salami and bunches of herbs hung from the smoky rafters. A girl with large hoop earrings and a bright kerchief about her neck was sitting on a low stool peeling potatoes and singing lustily the song of the "Ciociara"—"E quando la Ciociara si marita"—she sang to the rollicking air. A ray of sunlight coming through the window gilded her hair and touched the coral beads on her round brown throat.
Sora Nanna led the way up a stone stair to a large light upper chamber. The floor like that of the kitchen was of bare brick well scrubbed, a table stood in the centre with some straight-backed chairs. On the walls hung prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto and Queen Margherita taken at the time of their marriage, and Vittorio Emanuele II with a fierce moustache and a truculent eye. A couch stood against the wall, and in the far corner a large white bed flanked by a primitive dressing-table. Ragna shrank back, but the hostess bustled cheerfully forward.
"Many cacciatori, Signori of Rome and forestieri have I entertained here," she said, throwing open the windows. "Ah, they all know the Sora Nanna's cellar and the frittata. A frittata with artichokes, that is what I shall give your Excellencies!"
"I would rather go downstairs," whispered Ragna.
"Come now," said Mirko, "you can't sit in the kitchen with the contadini! This room is clean and it will do very well."
"Can't we sit outside under the pergola?"