“An officer, as it should seem by your dress;—be pleased to know that I am also an officer, and risk my displeasure no further.”
“No officer would ill-treat a defenceless girl,” the Pole replied with quiet contempt.
At this taunt Giorgio quivered with rage. His features, handsome and regular as those of Italians generally are, became quite distorted. His hands with convulsive movements sought about his breast for the dagger that was concealed there, his dark flashing eyes fixed intently at the same time upon his adversary, as if he hoped the fiendish spirit that burned within them might previously annihilate him.
“Be on your guard—he is a perfect wretch,” cried Marietta, rushing towards her protector.
The arrival of several servants from the inn dispelled all idea of present danger: they dragged off Giorgio, telling him that, although the girl was his sister, he had no right to separate her from the corps d’opera, with whom she was travelling through Gaeta.
“E vero è verissimo,” cried Marietta with joyful triumph.
“What is it to him if I like my liberty, and prefer wandering about, singing here and there.”
“Marietta! beware! dare not to speak ill of me!” screamed the retiring Giorgio, looking back over his shoulder, and accompanying his words with a look of such frightful menace as completely subdued his sister.
She watched in anxious silence till he had disappeared, and then, with affectionate humility and a graceful quickness that allowed not of its prevention, knelt lightly down, and pressed the stranger’s hand to her lips.
“You have more than repaid me for the song I sang to you,” she said, rising and leading the way to the inn; “and, if you like it, I will sing others to you whilst you sup.”