“Such was his hearty greeting; and when he had kissed the bride on both cheeks he lifted her from the saddle and showed her all that he had done to make ready for them. And this, out of his exceeding poverty, was not a little. The poor love the poor; and this man, who lived upon maize bread and ate meat only at the feasts, had spread upon his table a supper from which a noble would not have turned. Fresh sweet fruits, crisp loaves, a steaming dish of meat dressed with garlic, a dainty confection, a bottle of Chianti—these were the treasures he spread before their astonished eyes.
“‘Nay, Ugo, it is nothing,’ he answered to their words of wonder; ‘there is only one day in a man’s life when a fast comes ill—and this is thy day. Let thy wife eat and drink before there is sleep in her eyes. To-morrow she may run through the woods with thee; and the day after I will come again. If there is any talk of thee then, trust that I will carry it. But he will have a keen nose who follows to the hut of Orio. Surely, thy pretty words will lie snug here, my son.’
“The shepherd took his lantern, excellency, and when he had lighted it he set out upon the road to Duka. He was a merry fellow, whole-hearted and kindly, and they could hear his song rising up, faintly and still more faintly, from the thickets and the gorge below them. Only when the note had died away in the whispers of the wind did Ugo turn to Christine, and feel, for the first time since the priest had married them, that she had become a wife to him. She stood there before him, pale, her eyes wan with fatigue, her hair blown awry by the wind, her feet weary, her little Greek cap, which was his present to her, powdered with the dust of the stony road. Yet was she the child of his hopes, the little one whose face he had kissed in his dreams, the one living creature in all the world whose touch was an ecstasy to him.
“‘Carissima, anima mia,’ he cried, ‘now art thou surely my wife! Thou dost not fear my touch, Christine—nay, thou wilt lie in my arms always, for I love thee, I love thee. Oh, there was never love like mine, beloved, and never a wife like thee. Come close to my heart, that I may hear thine beating. My lips burn upon thy face and arms, Christine—sweet wife, dost thou not kiss me?’
“Lovers’ words they were, whispered as sacred messages, while he pressed her to him and his breath was hot upon her cheek. She had been all his hope—this little vagrant of the hills; and now she was his own, to lie warm against his heart, to look love to him with her wondrous eyes. His was Southern blood—the blood of a man nurtured upon the sunlight and the breezes of the woods. He would have killed men for Christine, excellency—but that night—the night of his life—no other thoughts but those of his love were with him when his arms were about the child, and her cheek pressed hot on his. He told himself that she had come to him—would be with him evermore. All his world was in the hut which the forest hid, all the joy of years rolled into one long-drawn day.
“‘Dost thou not kiss me?’ for the second time he asked; and looking up to him, she touched him lightly upon the forehead with her lips.
“‘Ugo,’ she said, ‘I am tired; thy arms hurt me; let me rest, and then I will speak.’
“‘My arms hurt thee—thou sayest so—nay, that is the word of yesterday. I know that thou lovest me, Christine, sweet wife!’
“‘I love thee, Ugo; have I not told thee often? What wouldst thou that I should say? There is sleep in my eyes, and my limbs tremble. To-morrow I will tell thee.’
“She drew back from his embrace, and sinking upon the rough couch of skins which Orio had spread for her, she rested her head upon her hands, and tears sprang to her eyes. The long day’s journey had brought at its end nothing but this sense of homelessness and fatigue which now weighed upon her to complete subjection. She prayed bitterly that some power might carry her back to the island she had left—to the people who had cried upon her, and the desolation of her home. The stillness of the mountains frightened her; she began to remember that she had stood before the altar with the man. Hour by hour that vision of a childish friendship, of a journey upon halcyon days through flowery walks and shady woods, grew dimmer and less pleasing. The flame of a candle in a rude lantern cast a ghostly light upon the face of him she must now call husband, and upon all things in that gloomy hut. Her limbs ached with the labours of the journey; there was mist before her eyes; she was one hungering for love—the love that is sympathy and strength, and the foe to sorrow. She asked, though she knew it not, for a father’s hands, that she might kneel to them and cling to them, and shed unchecked the tears which now fell in burning drops upon her scalded cheeks.