‘Gervasio!’ Marcia cried, with a quick spasm of self-reproach. She had forgotten him.
The boy drew himself up proudly and pointed through the open door to the soldiers pacing the length of the terrace.
‘Ecco! signorina. I soldati!’
Marcia dropped on her knees beside him with a little laugh. ‘You darling!’ she cried as she gathered him into her arms and kissed him.
Sybert bent over him and shook his hand. ‘You’re a brave boy, Gervasio,’ he said; ‘and you’ve probably saved our lives to-night.’
‘Am I going to live with you now,’ he asked, ‘like Gerald?’
‘Always,’ said Marcia, ‘just like Gerald.’
He opened his eyes wide. ‘And will I be an Americano then?’
‘No, Gervasio,’ said Sybert, quickly. ‘You’ll never be an Americano. You were born Italiano, and you’ll be Italiano till you die. You should be proud of it—it’s your birthright. We are Americani, and we are going—home. You may come with us and study and learn, but when you get to be a man you must come back to your own country. It will need you—and now run to bed. And you too, Miss Marcia,’ he added. ‘You are tired and there’s nothing to be done. Melville and I will attend to locking up.’
‘Locking up!’ cried Melville. ‘Good Lord, man, how many locking-ups does this house require?’ He watched them a moment in silence, and then he added bluntly: ‘Oh, see here, what’s the good of secrets between friends? I’ve known it all along.’ He held out a hand to each of them. ‘It’s eminently fitting; my congratulations come from my heart.’