When Paolo arrived on the scene a few moments later he found Andrea, well-nigh distracted, hugging his wounded pet to his breast, and whispering over and over again:
"Chico, Chico, you mustn't die—you mustn't die!"
It took Paolo but a few moments to assure himself that Chico was not seriously hurt, although he bore the scar made by the cruel claws for many a day, and it was weeks before he dared again to try the flight from his nest to the pavement.
As for the cat, although the old caretaker sallied forth vowing vengeance, she was never again seen.
Soon it was time for the children to go to school in the old building situated some distance from St. Mark's, not far from the Rialto.
There was now only time in the morning for a brief visit with Chico before lessons began, and a hurried half-hour with him at luncheon. Hence the moments after four o'clock and the full holiday on Saturday were most precious, and on those occasions no one was happier than Chico, flying from one to another, and usually ending by perching coquettishly on Andrea's shoulder.
"There isn't a pigeon in Venice to compare with him," remarked Andrea, lovingly touching the daintily arched bill, and looking into the clear eyes. "Tell me, Paolo, did you ever see so fine a bird?"
In answer the old man thoughtfully stretched out the well-shaped wings, saying, as the colors shone iridescent green and blue in the sunshine: "They're as beautiful as any wings I ever saw, and better than that, they're strong. Wings like that can carry a pigeon any distance. Yes," he continued, more to himself than to the children, "if he's to be a homer, it seems to me it's full time to begin his training."
Andrea started in an ecstasy of delight.
"Do you mean it, Paolo? Do you really mean it?"