“Il picino! Il picino!”[3]
“You will have to go back, Natalino,” laughed the clown. “Salute them and stand on your head, boy, but don’t lose it on the way.”
The music played loudly, and Natale stepped gravely back again, made his odd little bow, and fell over on his hands as the first step toward standing on his head. Poor, stiff little legs! It took more than one effort to throw them into an upright position above his head, but finally he really did accomplish it, and stood thus several seconds while the shouting and laughing went on.
When Natale had disappeared a second time behind the curtain, there were a few grave faces among the laughing ones looking on. An English lady whispered to her companion and sighed.
“The poor little fellow is evidently afraid to disobey that dreadful clown,” she said. “Did you see how he trembled as the man stood over him, when he tried to stand on his head? Something ought to be done to put a stop to this, Betty.”
“The child looks weak, as if he were not very well fed,” Betty answered, “but I do not think he looks unhappy. And the clown was certainly smiling, and seemed to be standing by as if to help the little boy accomplish his wonderful feat, I thought. Don’t distress yourself, Aunty. He is just learning, it may be, and they bring him in to contrast him with that little beauty who turned the ‘wheels.’ Send the boy some good bread and meat to-morrow, and that will be better for him than our empty sympathy.”
But “Aunty” was not satisfied, as we shall see.
The last act of the evening again brought Natale to the fore. The big spotted horse, Il Duca, was again brought into the ring, and after he had cantered gaily around inside the ring many times, to the music of a schottisch, striking terror to the ladies occupying the front seats, with their knees pressed against the low barrier, the clown suddenly called a halt and caught the bridle of the panting steed. Gently the solemn strains of the “Dead March” sounded through the tent, and Il Duca fell slowly and painfully upon his knees, and then rolled over upon the ground, apparently dying. The light dust of the ring stirred under the beast’s laboring nostrils, and deep groans issued from his throat, while Giovanni stood mournfully by and the music played on.
CHAPTER IV
THE FESTIVAL OF SAN LORENZO
Suddenly the small black figure of Natale appeared, kneeling at the horse’s side, although no one had seen him slip in. With his hands clasped in distress, he lifted his voice in such a disconsolate wail that even Betty started and wondered if the horse could be really dying.