Presently, the gleaming eyes of bicycles began to whiz by, and a squarely built, many-windowed villa or two rose flush with the road. A little farther now, and the tent would surely appear, with perhaps Cara in her red dress at the doorway, and the band playing outside in the light of the big lamp!
Laughing stragglers now sauntered here and there, none noticing the child making his dizzy way among them toward a flare of light on one side where the trees fell apart. One would have hardly believed it possible that there was room for even the tent of the Circo Equestre of Antonio Bisbini and Giovanni Marzuchetti in the space between the long storehouse of corn and the terraced hillside behind. Yet, not only was the tent there, spread to its full circle and height, but the brown wagon also was visible, drawn within its shadow, and now the staring brown eyes of the little wanderer had found them both.
Yes, there was the dear old tent, with its white patches upon the dull yellow, showing against the vine-clad hillsides of the Bagni. Also, there was the smoky lamp fastened to a post, where two ways met and parted. There was the usual crowd gathered outside about the entrance where Cara in her red dress and gauzy veil watched over the money bowl, in wait for some possible late-arriving spectator. The big reflecting lantern on the table showed the wistful features of the outsiders as they crowded about the tent.
As Natale crept around the tent, he saw the bare, brown legs of some trespassing youngster following squirming head and shoulders inside, under the curtain by way of the ground. In former times, the little acrobat would have been the first to raise an alarm and assist with alacrity in the ignominious expulsion of the intruder who wanted to see the show, and yet keep his soldi in his pocket, if such were there. But the sight of the enterprising offender made little impression on Natale’s mind now, as he stepped past the struggling legs, for, the hour being much later than he thought, the band inside just then struck up the familiar schottisch, and Natale knew that Il Duca was even now treading the ring in a dignified dance, led by Giovanni himself. His heart gave a suffocating throb, and his cheeks burned. Then he shivered with cold, and his weary legs faltered before the daring deed about to be perpetrated.
There was plenty of time, even yet, and he would do it even if Giovanni should strike him to the ground with his cracking whip, which had never yet, however, been raised against him with more than threatening intent.
He stopped to listen a moment longer to the music before entering. Yes, there it was, the schottisch, accompanied by the beat of the clever hoofs. Then, as he knew the moment was at hand for Il Duca to drop dying in the ring, Natale crept swiftly in among the players gathered as usual in the small tent behind. Olga was there and Arduina, in their fanciful costumes, and Elvira, his mother, waiting for their “cues.”
CHAPTER XII
AT LAST
The small, pale apparition of Natale, suddenly projected into their midst, so startled them all that even Olga forgot to listen for the thud of Il Duca’s heavy body on the ground and the sound of his groans. They stared open-mouthed for an instant, and then the apparition vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
But the strains of the “Dead March” now recalled little Olga to herself, and she darted from behind the curtain and out into the light of the oil lamp, only to hear a familiar boyish voice instead of her own answering shrilly Giovanni’s question, “What are you crying about, child?”
“Because our horse is dead!”