‘And if it be he, boy, there is no need to laugh,’ said Tina, shuddering. ‘The dark waters of that lake there, that cover some of his handiwork, if they could speak, would tell you so.’
‘Then what am I to do, Tina?’’ said he, throwing open the door. ‘You ‘d not have me meet them on the shore there and begin the attack, would you?’
If Gerald threw out this suggestion as impracticable, it was yet precisely the course he was longing himself to follow, and most eager that she should assent to.
‘The Blessed Virgin forbid it!’ cried she, crossing herself. ‘There is but one road to take, and that is yonder,’ and she pointed to a little rugged footpath that wound its way over the mountain, which joined the frontier with Tuscany.
‘And am I in meet condition to travel, Tina?’ said he jestingly, as he showed his ragged dress and pulled out the lining of his empty pockets.
‘There is Signor Gabriel’s cape,’ said she; ‘it is almost as good as a cloak: he left it with me, but I have no need of it; and there is the crown-piece you gave me yourself when you were ill of the fever, and I want it just as little.’
The boy struggled hard to refuse both, but the sorrow Tina felt for the rejection at last overcame him, and, half in shame and half in pleasure—for the sense of exacting sacrifice is pleasure, deny it how we may—he yielded, and accepted her gift.
‘Oh, Tina, will there ever come a day when I can repay this kindness?’ said he. ‘I almost think there will.’
‘To be sure, Gerald, and you ‘ll not forget me even if there should not. You who were taught by the pious Frati how to pray will surely say a good word in your devotions for a poor girl like Tina.’
The boy’s heart overflowed with emotion at the trait of simple piety, and he kissed her twice with all the affection of a fond brother. ‘Good-bye, Tina,’ said he, sobbing; ‘I feel stronger and stouter in heart, now that I know your kind wishes are going along with me—they are better to me, love, than a purse full of money.’