The student tapped at the door. It was opened by a woman somewhat advanced in life, attired in the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of ebony strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat severe and stern, her demeanor was commanding, and her figure still retained some remains of youthful beauty.
She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished word burst from her lips.
“Ah! Adr—tush! Leone, I mean—thou art early home to-day, my son.”
“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow scholar Florian, son to the Baron Diarmo of Florence. In yonder convent we pursue our studies in one apartment side by side. An hour since, as we strolled through the gardens adjoining the convent, my friend missed his footing, and severely bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer than the convent, I thought I could not do better then bring him hither. I need not commend him to thy care.”
“Thou art welcome fair sir,” the dame replied, with a kindly smile. “Enter our abode; ’tis humble, yet ’tis sacred, for the bounty of the convent bestows it upon my son and me, while he is preparing for the priesthood. Come in, gentle Florian.”
They entered the cottage, and the door was closed.
No sooner had they disappeared than something rustled in the bushes and the bow-legged vagabond, Francisco, emerged into the light.
“Oh—ho!” he cried, “here’s a mystery. The convent allow old Mistress Vinegar-face to reside on their land, in their cottage, while her son is preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by’r lady! I see it all—’tis as I suppose—these two striplings, are those, for whom such an immense reward has been offered in the neighboring towns and villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well as any other wight’s—eh? Via! Francisco! Vagabond no longer, but henceforth Signor Francisco! Via!”
Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms and a gigantic stride; and as he stalked away, the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on the other side of the cot, and, bursting into a loud laugh, they tripped after the swelling “vagabond.”
Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned seat, the gentle Florian submitted his foot to the hands of the dame, who drew off the shoe and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise; remarking, at the same time, that the foot was one of the smallest, and the ancle one of the prettiest in the wide world.