“The shepherd did not answer the lad at the moment, but struck a match and lighted his lantern. The feeble yellow rays fell upon the face of the sleeping girl, and added to the pallor of it. Though a flush of red suffused the cheeks, there were heavy rings about the eyes, and the hands which before had been cold now burnt with the rising fever. A rapid, irregular breathing, a low moaning, an ever-changing attitude, betrayed the penalties of fatigue and sickness. It was plain that he who carried little Christine from the hut that night would carry her to her death.
“‘God help thee, Ugo; thou sayest well,’ cried Orio, when he had held his hand for a moment upon the child’s temples; ‘she is in the sweat of the fever, and will travel no road to-night. Accidente, that thou must leave her——’
“Ugo, wringing his hands with the trouble and the danger, turned upon the shepherd a look of withering scorn.
“‘That I must leave her—you say that? And you are my friend, Orio!’
“‘My son,’ said the shepherd, quietly, ‘if you do not leave her before the clock strikes again, you will wake to-morrow in the prison at the fort. How then will you watch her? Oh, surely you have no choice! Either the hills or the whip of the corporal—a hard ride to-night or a cell in the city. And look now—I will guide you to a place in the thickets of Glamoch, where all the soldiers in Austria will not find you; but to-morrow before dawn I will be here again, and my wife shall come, and we will do what we can for the little one. Corpo dell’ anima tua, would I leave such as her to the wolves?’
“Ugo listened to his words like one distracted, bending often to kiss the burning face of his wife, or protesting again and again that he would never leave the hut. Misfortune had come upon him so quickly, he had been so near to happiness, that passion and grief together blinded him, and shut his ears to reason. He declared that the soldiers might take him where he stood; that they should come to find his body by that of his wife. Tears sprang to his eyes as he knelt at the bedside and pressed close to her by whom this suffering had come. He cursed the day when first he had seen her, the day when she was born.
“‘Thou wilt come again, Orio—aye surely—to find her dead. Let them take me where I am. I will not leave her. She is all I have. Oh! thou knowest that I love her, and she will wake at dawn and hold her arms out to me and call my name, and there will be none to answer. You cannot wish it—you, my friend?’
“Excellency, the shepherd did not respond to this passionate cry. He had opened the door and put out the lantern even while the lad was speaking; and now he held up his hand and stood to listen.
“‘Hark! dost thou hear any sound, Ugo?’
“‘I hear the breaking of branches in the wood.’