‘Not a whit poorer or more alone in the world than the rest of us,’ said Pippo good-naturedly. ‘We have all a rough journey before us in life, and the least we can do is to help one another.’
The youth grasped the old man’s hand and pressed it to his heart.
‘Besides,’ continued Pippo, ‘all your gratitude is owing to Signor Gabriel himself. Any little comforts you have had here have been of his procuring. He it was fetched that doctor from Bolseno, and his own hands carried the little jar of honey from St. Stephano.’
‘What a kind heart he has!’ cried Gerald eagerly.
‘Well,’ said Pippo, with a dry, odd smile, ‘that’s not exactly what people say of him; not but he can do a kind thing too, just as he can do anything.’
‘Is he so clever, then?’ asked Gerald curiously.
‘Is he not!’ exclaimed Pippo; ‘where has he not travelled, what has he not seen! And then the books he has written—scores of them, they tell me: he’s always writing still—whole nights through; after which, instead of going to his bed like any one else, he is off for a plunge in the lake there, though I’ve told him over and over, that the water that kills fish can never be healthy for a human being!’
‘What a strange nature his must be! And what brings him here?’
‘That’s his secret, and it would be mine too, if I knew it; for, I promise you, he ‘s not one it’s over safe to talk about.’
‘Where does he come from?’