“But why? He is rich, she is penniless,—no, not quite that, for we have saved—but penniless, compared to him.”
“My good friend, I know not yet his motives; but I can easily learn them. If, however, this count be your master’s enemy, it is surely well to guard against him, whatever his designs; and to do so, you should move into London or its neighbourhood. I fear that, while we speak, the count may get upon his track.”
“He had better not come here!” cried the servant, menacingly, and putting his hand where the knife was not.
“Beware of your own anger, Giacomo. One act of violence, and you would be transported from England, and your mast’r would lose a friend.”
Jackeymo seemed struck by this caution.
“And if the padrone were to meet him, do you think the padrone would meekly say, ‘Come sta sa Signoria’? The padrone would strike him dead!”
“Hush! hush! You speak of what in England is called murder, and is punished by the gallows. If you really love your master, for Heaven’s sake get him from this place, get him from all chance of such passion and peril. I go to town to-morrow; I will find him a house, that shall be safe from all spies, all discovery. And there, too, my friend. I can do what I cannot at this distance,—watch over him, and keep watch also on his enemy.”
Jackeymo seized Randal’s hand, and lifted it towards his lip; then, as if struck by a sudden suspicion, dropped the hand, and said bluntly, “Signore, I think you have seen the padrone twice. Why do you take this interest in him?”
“Is it so uncommon to take interest even in a stranger who is menaced by some peril?”
Jackeymo, who believed little in general philanthropy, shook his head sceptically.