“Do you know, papa, what our girl Annetta has heard? Some one told her this morning.”
“What?”
“That the young Inglese is an artist, just like our Luigi. How strange if it be so?”
“’Tis probable enough. Many of these English residents in Rome are artists by profession. They come here to study our old paintings and sculptures. He may be one, and very likely is. ’Tis a pity, poor fellow, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps if he were a great milord it would be all the worse for him. His captors would require a much larger sum for his ransom. If they find he can’t pay, they’ll be likely to let him go.”
“I do hope they will; I do indeed.”
“But why, child? Why are you so much interested in this young man? There have been others. Corvino’s band took three with them, the last time they passed through. You said nothing about them.”
“I did not notice them, papa: and he—think of his being a pittore! Suppose brother Luigi was treated so in his country?”
“There is no danger of that. I wish we had such a country to live in; under a government where everything is secure, life, property, and—”
The sindico did not say what besides. He was thinking of the admonition he had recently received.
“And why should we not go to England? Go there and live with Luigi. He said in his last letter, he has been successful in his profession, and would like to have us with him. Perhaps this young Inglese on his return may stop at the inn; and, if you would question him, he could tell us all about his country. If it be true what you say of it, why should we not go there to live?”