All indecision was gone now, and he fairly slid down the rocky and precipitous way, which was more gully than footway, being in fact a watercourse for the torrents leaping down the mountain side, after some storm of rain, as well as a short cut to the river for roughly shod peasant feet.
More than once Natale stumbled, and once he fell headlong, bruising his hands and knees, but he did not mind, for the rushing of the little river down among the rocks was becoming very loud in his ears.
When at last he came out of the woods, and stood on the edge of the waste of rounded stones loosely paving the river bed, he looked back a moment to where the village must be, high above, a huddle of gray wall and roof, with the square church tower in its midst. All seemed as silent in the sleeping town as in the home of the sleeping dead on its outskirts. Then, just as Natale again turned his back upon the mountain side, where perched Cutigliano like a bit of gray lichen growing on some mossy bowlder, the beautiful, bright, friendly moon slipped quite over the mountain in the west, and darkness fell upon the valley, where deep down in its darkest shadow Natale was ready to cross the river. The light of the moon still touched the chestnut woods higher up the slopes, but every moment the shadow would be creeping higher and higher, until there would be no more moonlight on this side the mountain, and only the stars would come peeping out at Natale.
After slipping off his shoes and leggings, the boy began picking his way carefully over the large dry stones which were worn smooth and round by slow wasting in the wet seasons, when the river flooded its narrow course and spread to the grassy banks. The stones rolled under even his light footsteps, but Natale kept his balance in crossing the smaller stones, and clambered patiently over or around the largest ones, and presently arrived at the edge of the black, rushing water. The brawling Lima makes a great ado hereabouts, as it tumbles over the rocks, for its bed slopes decidedly all the way to Lucca and beyond, and there is no opportunity for it to moderate its pace, or calm its chafings against the rocks.
With the first touch of the icy water upon his bared feet, Natale recalled his dream. How long ago it had been since he had lain safely in his bed under the slanting roof of Luigi’s house! Again and again he tried to plant his foot firmly in the midst of the swirling water, which was perhaps as much as twenty feet wide at that point, but always it was deeper and colder than he had expected, and the stones more slippery and unsteady. Then he began wandering up and down the bank, in quest of the stepping-stones, which here and there certainly crossed the river both above and below the arched bridge. Unsuccessful in this, Natale finally exerted himself to make a reckless dash into the current, where he found himself the next instant up to his waist in the black water and clinging desperately by one free hand to a wet rock, with the instinct of preserving himself from being carried off his feet. Then miserably he felt his way back to the dry rocks on the edge of the stream, and dropping down upon their harsh bosom, he began to cry bitterly.
He had so hoped there would be a crossing place! If he could only find it! His feet were sore with bruises now, and he felt as if he could not walk another step. He grew cold as he crouched there, sobbing with disappointment, for though the sun shines hot during the daytime on the chestnut trees and the vines of the Apennines, the nights, even of summer, are cool, and now a chill wind came sweeping down the valley from the fir-crowned summits of Abetone.
Presently the little wanderer roused himself and stood on his feet. Nothing could tempt him to try to find his way back to the house of the priest, not even aching feet or shivering limbs, but he began to think there might be a more sheltered place near by—this little boy of the road, who had taken many a noontide nap curled up at the foot of some wayside tree. Perhaps the earliest light of dawn would show him the stepping-stones and the road, of which there was no hint now in the blackness of darkness across the river. Painfully he crept back toward the bank, where presently he curled himself into a knot at the foot of a huge, distorted old chestnut tree, a short distance up the slope. The grass was soft and springy about the roots of the old tree, and a huge boulder near by shut off the wind from Natale’s shivering legs. So, with a sigh of content, and for the first time tasting the sweets of his new freedom, the little acrobat closed his eyes upon the stars winking down at him from above the stirring leaves, and fell asleep for the second time that night.
CHAPTER X
ON THE WING
Long before Natale waked, the day had dawned, but the sun had not long looked down into the valley before he turned stiffly on his grassy couch and rubbed his eyes. Then, however, he lost not an instant in taking up his journey where it had left off the night before.
How easy it was in the light of the sunbeams of the early morning to spring over the dry stones of the bank, and with a swift glance up and down select a safe place to cross the water which had seemed so dangerous and cruel in the dark.