“Yes, yes, no fear,” said Marco, turning away; “I would, though, that your shadow had never darkened my doorway.”
Chiarina longed to know who the stranger could he; yet she did not like to ask her father. ’Renzo, left equally in ignorance, at length was compelled to take his departure, not at all satisfied in his mind that all would go well.
Story 11--Chapter III.
Had the stranger been a son, Marco could not have tended him with greater care than he did, aided by Chiarina, who, however, never got over the mistrust she had felt of him from the first. ’Renzo came whenever he could, and never before had he been so sensible of making rapid progress in her affections. The truth is, she felt that she required some one on whom she could rely for protection and support. Her father never gave a hint as to who the stranger was, and all she knew was that he looked at her in a way she did not like, and that he spoke in a bold, self-confident tone, which grated harshly on her ears. He had now almost entirely recovered his strength, but, except when the shades of evening came on, he did not go out of doors. The only reason he gave for this was, that the light of day was disagreeable to his eyes. It was evident that Marco wished that he would take his departure. In the first place, Marco could not go to market; in the second, the stranger was making love, in a rough way, to his daughter; in the third, he was eating up his provisions; and, in the fourth place—but that reason, probably stronger than any of the others, he kept to himself. ’Renzo would gladly have volunteered to turn him out crop and heel, but that would not have suited Marco’s notions of hospitality; nor was it likely that such proceeding would have passed by unnoticed in some disagreeable manner by the stranger’s friends.
One day, at noon, as Marco was working in his fields, and had just been joined by Chiarina, who came to tell him that his dinner was ready, they saw in the distance a cloud of dust, out of which shortly emerged a troop of dragoons. Chiarina remarked her father’s agitation as he hurried towards the house. Their guest, on hearing who was approaching, instantly retired to his room, telling Marco to say, if any inquiries were made, that there was a sick man up-stairs with an infectious fever. “Invite the officer to come in and prescribe for me,” he added, laughing.
The body of cavalry halted under the house, but only an officer dismounted and came up the hill. He entered the house, and asking carelessly for a jug of wine, inquired of Marco whether he had been annoyed by the brigands.
“Ah, signore! I am, happily, too small game for them to fly at,” he answered; “yet I love them not, nor wish to have any dealings with them.”
The officer looked satisfied, and Marco hoped that he would ask no further questions.