And humming the tune of the well-known love-ditty under his breath, he raised his glass of wine to his lips and drained it off with a relish, while his honest face beamed with gayety and pleasure. Always the same story, I thought, moodily. Love, the tempter—Love, the destroyer—Love, the curse! Was there no escape possible from this bewildering snare that thus caught and slew the souls of men?
CHAPTER XXXIII.
He soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair closer to mine, assumed an air of mystery.
“And for your friend who is in trouble,” he said, in a confidential tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to proceed.
I nodded.
“Go on, amico. What have you arranged?”
“Everything!” he announced, with an air of triumph. “All is smooth sailing. At six o’clock on Friday morning the ‘Rondinella,’ that is the brig I told you of, eccellenza, will weigh anchor for Civita Vecchia. Her captain, old Antonio Bardi, will wait ten minutes or even a quarter of an hour if necessary for the—the—”
“Passenger,” I supplemented. “Very amiable of him, but he will not need to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour. Is he satisfied with the passage money?”
“Satisfied!” and Andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud. “By San Pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on the voyage! Though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he being old and cross and crusty. Yes; he is one of those men who have seen so much of life that they are tired of it. Believe it! even the stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old Bardi. But he is satisfied this time, eccellenza, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that I should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind when he steps on board.”
“That is well,” I said, smiling. “I owe you many thanks, Andrea. And yet there is one more favor I would ask of you.”