“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,” said the husband.
“Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with your safety,” said she, looking up tenderly in his face.
There was something in her tone and manner that showed she really was Thinking more of her husband’s safety at that moment than of her own; and being recently married, and a match of pure affection, too, it is very possible that she was. At least her husband thought so. Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet, musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband’s believing whatever they professed.
He clasped the white hand that had been laid within his, put his arm round her slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom—“This night at least,” said he, “we’ll pass at Terracina.”
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
Another apparition of the road attracted the attention of mine host and his guests. From the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage drawn by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious pace—the postillions smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when conscious of the greatness or the munificence of their fare. It was a landaulet, with a servant mounted on the dickey. The compact, highly finished, yet proudly simple construction of the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences; the loads of box coats and upper benjamins on the dickey—and the fresh, burly, gruff-looking face at the window, proclaimed at once that it was the equipage of an Englishman.
“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord came bowing to the carriage door.
“Would not his Excellenza alight and take some refreshment?”
“No—he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi!”
“But the horses will be some time in getting ready—”