She saw the little crumpled victim now, and with a pitiful sob sank down and took it into her lap. “Ah! poor Maria!” she wept, smoothing a stained wing.
“Vincenza,” pleaded Austin, putting the gun aside and kneeling beside her, “I didn’t mean to do it. I thought it was a quail. Oh, I’m so sorry. Listen. I’ll make the loss up a thousand times. Come, please don’t cry.”
The chaparral crashed above him. He stood up—in time to meet the angry black eyes of a stalwart young man, who came panting upon the scene, carrying Vincenza’s hat.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the newcomer. “My Vincenza, are you hurt? This fool has been shooting.” And lifting the girl up, he held her, as if in defence, against his breast. [Instantly Austin divined why the mistress of High Court had no need to belittle the turkey-girl!]
“No, no, Guido,” Vincenza sobbed protestingly, “he is not a fool.”
“He kills the turkeys,” went on Guido, glaring at Austin. “Say, Mister, what’s the matter with you?”
“I’ll make it right,” Austin answered in a low voice.
“The devil!” began Guido, almost shaking Vincenza in his wrath. “But she loves each little one.”
Vincenza interrupted him. A slim hand came up and settled determinedly upon his mouth. “Guido,” she entreated, “do not be so mad. I would have to sell them all before the wedding, would I not? And Maria was so young—she was not worth two-bits. Only”—plaintively—“she dies a little sooner.”
“Well, anyhow,” went on Guido, not a whit pacified, “I like to know why you hang around and hang around here all the time. Vincenza, she is mine, and I do not——”