She tried. Her body was quivering from excitement and fear. Her little blistered foot pained her. She couldn't dance. Guiseppe watched her angrily, Marta tearfully, as she lifted her tambourine, struck it and danced one step—two—then dropped on her knees.
"Pieta, pieta [pity, pity], signor," she cried. "I cannot dance now. To–night—with the music, the people and the dancers—I will dance well then; not now, Guiseppe. I pray you, dear Marta, tell him I cannot."
Guiseppe took up a big stick that was lying near him. He struck Pappina once—twice. She was on her feet like a flash. She started to run, Guiseppe seized her by her dress; it slipped through his fingers and before he had time to collect himself she was gone, speeding like a deer down the street. She was running away from Guiseppe, she neither knew nor cared where.
Down the street, turning one corner after another, on, on to the marina, where she was soon lost in the throng of boys and tourists. She jumped into a row–boat just as the oarsman was starting with his load of passengers for the steamer leaving Sorrento for Naples.
There were a few moments of suspense; then she was hurried aboard the steamer with the others. She was safe!
Guiseppe, as he sprang after Pappina, stumbled on his own cruel stick. When he got to his feet the child was turning a corner. He saw the little red dress and its owner disappear from his view forever. He glared in a frenzy at Marta.
"Curse her! Curse her!" he shrieked. "To–day of all days to get away from me! Marta, have you turned to stone? Why don't you move? Why didn't you run after her, instead of standing there staring like a mummy? We must have her before dark. Go—search everywhere. Move!—Don't stop till you find her."