CHAPTER XXIII
THE DÉNOUEMENT
The morning sun poured over the hills, throwing huge shadows in the gorge below. The stream, swollen by the heavy rains of the past night, foamed and snarled along its ragged bed. The air was fresh and cool, and the stately cypresses took on a deeper shade of green. Lizards scampered over the damp stones about the porter's lodge or sought the patches of golden sunshine, and insects busied themselves with the daily harvest. O'Mally sniffed. As the wind veered intermittently there came to him the perfume of the locust trees, now in full bloom, the flowers of which resembled miniature cascades hanging in mid-air. Pietro rocked, his legs crossed, his face blurred in the drifting tobacco smoke.
"No more tourists, Pietro."
"No." Pietro sighed, a ruminating light in his faded eyes.
"Did you ever see La Signorina before? Do you know anything about her?"
"Never! No!" answered Pietro, with the perfect candor of an accomplished liar.
"Have you ever seen her Highness?"
"When she so," indicating a height about two feet from the ground.
"You said that you had never seen her."