As he paused to take in the meaning of the scene, he heard Marcia—evidently so angry that she had forgotten her Italian—say in English: ‘You beastly little cowards! You wouldn’t dare hurt anything but a poor animal that can’t hit back.’ She accompanied this speech with a vigorous shake to a small boy whom she held by the shoulder. The boy could not understand her words, but he did understand her action and he kicked back vigorously. The crowd laughed and began to close around her. She took out her purse. ‘Who owns this dog?’ she demanded. At sight of the money they pressed closer, and in another moment would have snatched it away; but Sybert stepped forward, and raising his cane, scattered them right and left.
‘What in the world are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Mr. Sybert! I’m so glad to see you. Look! those horrible little wretches were killing this dog.’
Sybert glanced down at her feet, where a bedraggled cur was crouching, shivering, and looking up with pleading eyes. The blood was running from a cut on its shoulder, and a motley assortment of tin was tied to its tail by a cord. He took out his knife and cut the dog loose, and Marcia stooped and picked it up.
‘Take care, Miss Marcia,’ he said in a disgusted tone. ‘He’s very dirty, and you will get covered with blood.’
Marcia put her handkerchief over the dog’s wound, and it lay in her arms, whimpering and shaking.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded again, almost roughly. ‘What are you doing in this part of the city alone?’
His tone at another time would have been irritating, but just now she was too grateful for his appearance to be anything but cordial, and she hastily explained—
‘I’ve been spending the afternoon at Tre Fontane with some friends. I left them at the English cemetery, and was just driving back to the station when I saw those miserable little boys chasing this dog. I jumped out and grabbed him, and they all followed me.’
‘I see,’ said Sybert; ‘and it is fortunate that I happened by when I did, or you wouldn’t have had any money left to pay your cab-driver. These Roman urchins have not the perfect manners one could wish.’