“Warm yourself,” said the young woman, pointing to the flat disc of fire on the floor. She put a chair up to it, and Alvina sat down. The men in the room stared, but went on noisily with their cards. Ciccio came in with luggage. Men got up and greeted him effusively, watching Alvina between whiles as if she were some alien creature. Words of American sounded among the Italian dialect.
There seemed to be a confab of some sort, aside. Ciccio came and said to her:
“They want to know if we will stay the night here.”
“I would rather go on home,” she said.
He averted his face at the word home.
“You see,” said Pancrazio, “I think you might be more comfortable here, than in my poor house. You see I have no woman to care for it—”
Alvina glanced round the cave of a room, at the rough fellows in their black hats. She was thinking how she would be “more comfortable” here.
“I would rather go on,” she said.
“Then we will get the donkey,” said Pancrazio stoically. And Alvina followed him out on to the high-road.
From a shed issued a smallish, brigand-looking fellow carrying a lantern. He had his cloak over his nose and his hat over his eyes. His legs were bundled with white rag, crossed and crossed with hide straps, and he was shod in silent skin sandals.