The little farm was rather stony, but sweet to the eye as a bouquet of flowers, with the deep greens of the figs and grapes and the silvery greens of the olives. Furthermore, there were roses in the door-yard, and the young and childless widow to whom the homestead belonged stood among the roses. She was brown and scarlet, and her eyes were black and merry.
Yes, yes, she agreed, she would sell! There was a mortgage on the place. She intended to pay that off and have a little over. True, the place paid. But, Good Lord, she lived all alone, and she didn't enjoy that!
They invited the pretty widow to luncheon, and she helped them spread the cloth under a fig tree that had thrown shade for five hundred years. Asabri passed the champagne, and they all became very merry together. Indeed, the sullen brigand became so merry and happy that he no longer addressed Asabri respectfully as "excellency," but gratefully and affectionately as "my father."
This one became more and more delighted with the term, until finally he said:
"It is true, that in a sense I am this young man's father, since I believe that if I were to advise him to do a certain thing he would do it."
"That is God's truth," cried the sullen brigand; "if he advised me to advance single-handed against the hosts of hell, I should do so."
"My son," said Asabri, "our fair guest affirms that upon this beautiful little farm she has had everything that she could wish except companionship. Are you not afraid that you, in your turn, will here suffer from loneliness?" He turned to the pretty widow. "I wish," said he, "to address myself to you in behalf of this young man."
The others became very silent. The notary lifted his glass to his lips. The widow blushed. Said she:
"I like his looks well enough; but I know nothing about him."
"I can tell you this," said Asabri, "that he has been a man of exemplary honesty since—yesterday, and that under the seat of my automobile he has, in a leather bag, a fortune of fifty thousand lire."