He turned his back, and went out into the night. It was now almost quite dark, and Annetta stood still by the chair, listening to his retreating footsteps. Then she slowly turned and gazed at the flaring wicks of the lamp. With a gesture that suggested the movement of a young animal, she rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and leisurely turned her head first to one side and then to the other. Her brown skin was unusually pale, but there was no moisture in her eyes as she stared at the lamp.
"But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso," she said thoughtfully and softly.
Then turning her eyes from the lamp at last, she took up one of the knives from the table, looked at it, felt the edge, and laid it down contemptuously. In those days all the respectable peasants in the Roman villages had solid silver forks and spoons, which have long since gone to the melting-pot to pay taxes. But they used the same blunt, pointless knives with wooden handles, which they use to-day.
Annetta started, as she heard Dalrymple's tread upon the stone steps of the staircase, but she recovered herself instantly, gave a finishing touch to the table, rubbed the back of her head quickly once more, and met him with a smile.
"Is the beefsteak of mutton ready?" inquired the Scotchman, cheerfully, with his extraordinary accent.
Annetta ran past him, and returned almost before he was seated, bringing the food. The girl sat down at the end of the table, opposite the street door, and watched him as he swallowed one mouthful of meat after another, now and then stopping to drink a tumbler of wine at a draught.
"You must be very strong, Signore," said Annetta, at last, her chin resting on her doubled hand.
"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, carelessly, between two mouthfuls.
"Because you eat so much. It must be a fine thing to eat so much meat. We eat very little of it."
"Why?" asked the Scotchman, again between his mouthfuls.