The soup was of vegetables, for which the Fabiani family had not paid, but it was none the less nourishing on that account. The chicken, a luxury, for which for many days the palate of the Fabiani family had been innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with magic haste. The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad were beyond cavil; and the coffee—of Monsieur Duchanel's best—made all things complete.
The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the stars came peeping shyly forth. Fabiani, who for all his braggadocio did not lack a certain magnificence, had insisted that the visitors remain in camp for the night. Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with the Signora Fabiani, Stella and the baby. Were there not two beds? As for Monsieur Philidor—he knew a man when he saw one. The night was heaven sent. Monsieur should sleep as he and Luigi slept—à la belle étoile.
Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had accepted the invitation, and now, all care banished for at least twelve hours, they sat in great good fellowship before the fire, listening to Cleofonte's tales of the road. They forgave him much for his good heart and at appropriate moments led in applause of his prowess and achievements. When the conversation lagged, which it did when Cleofonte grew weary, Hermia brought forth her orchestre and played for them; first the tunes she had practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence in their appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funicula," to which Cleofonte, who had a soul for concord, roared a fine basso. It was a night for vagabonds, carefree, a night of laughter, of mirth and of song. What did it matter what happened on the morrow? Here were meat, drink and good company. Could any mortal ask for more?
After a time, the din awakening the bambino, the Signora went to bed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, followed to the wagon. The animals fed and watered, Markham settled down by the fire with his newly found friends and lit a pipe. In a moment Luigi had fallen back on his blanket and was asleep. Markham was conscious that Fabiani still talked, but he had already learned that it was not necessary to make replies, and so he sat, nodding or answering in monosyllables. A warm breeze sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and a night bird called in the distance. The glow of the fire painted the trunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty to where their branches held eyrie among the stars. The chains of the bear still clanked as he rolled to and fro until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofonte brought quiet in that direction. After a while even Cleofonte grew weary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, and he sank prone and slept.
Markham sat for a long while, his back against the bole of a tree, pipe in mouth, gazing into the embers of the fire. He had brought the tarpaulin which covered the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had provided him with a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep. The smile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleasant ones. Hermia had learned something to-day—would learn something more to-morrow, and yet she had not flinched from the school in which he was driving her. If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her from her venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calculations. Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make her relish the keener. She was drinking in impressions avidly, absorbing the new life as a sponge absorbs water, differing from this only in the particular that her capacity for retention had no limitations. He smiled because it pleased him to think that his judgment of her character had not been at fault. Hers was a brave soul, not easily daunted or discouraged, better worthy of this life which was teaching its stoicism, charity and self-abnegation than of that other life which denied by self-sufficiency their very existence—a gallant spirit which for once soared free of the worldly, venal and time-serving. It pleased him to think it was by his means that she had been bought into his valley of contentment and that thus far she had found it pleasant. Would the humor last?
Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths of his being, and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly. Markham looked toward the roulette. The lantern which had burned there a while ago had been extinguished. Strangely enough, although it was his custom to be much alone, Markham wanted company. He wished at least that Hermia had bade him good night. It was curious how quickly one fell into the habit of gregariousness. He and Hermia had fared together but for one day, and yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon her presence. It was the habit of interdependence, of course—he recognized it, the same habit which led men and women in droves to the cities, to herd in the back streets of the slums when the clean vales of the open country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub and clover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as one should at the stars, lulled by the song of the stream or the whistle of the south wind in the— His head nodded and his pipe dropped from his teeth. Heigho! he had almost been asleep.
He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground. As he did so a dry twig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and presently a small phantom emerged from the shadows. It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon her lips in token of silence.
"Couldn't you sleep?" he whispered.
"No. It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got to sleep I came away."
He laid a log upon the fire, and made a place for her beside him.