She played in silence, except when she shuffled the clicking dominoes underneath her small sun-tanned hands. It was an even game for a while, until the old Italian began to win, and her pile of notes steadily diminished. She played coolly on, despite the comments of the crowd. She was down to her last note when the luck turned in her favour. She won steadily, gathering back the notes, until Luigi had scarcely any left. He began to turn up his dominoes cautiously, having evidently no desire to be beaten by a girl.
I watched Ninetta’s face closely for some sign of excitement, but none was visible. She was thoroughly self-possessed, and the fact that she held my life in her hands had no outward effect upon her. Fortune favoured Luigi again, and they were soon about even. The men who crowded around the table grew impatient. “Siete un figurino, Luigi! Sta a voi giuocare. Bah! you’re afraid of her! you don’t bet,” and like expressions were heard, while the others encouraged my little champion. Her father came to where she sat, and patting her upon the shoulder, remarked, “Ninetta was always a lucky girl.”
They commenced to play, and it was the man’s shuffle. The betting was high. Ninetta glanced at her dominoes in an uncertain way, and then at the few limp notes at her elbow. She had thirty lire less than he. The excitement was intense. For a moment only heavy breathing could be heard; then the bright-eyed girl laughed nervously and pushed the whole of the notes into the pool.
Her opponent threw in the rest of his money, breaking into a discordant laugh.
“It’s the last game,” he said, glancing over at me. “Sorry for you, but you can prepare for death. Well, what have you got, Ninetta?”
She quietly turned up the double-six, and one by one exhibited dominoes of high denomination. He struck the table a blow that made the ivories jingle. “Dio! Domino! Luck is always on your side; I’d have staked my last couple of soldi that I held a winning hand, but the double-six was too much for me! Come, comrades, let’s have some wine and drink to my bad luck!”
He led the way to the small bar at the end of the room, followed by the crowd and the gendarmes, now appearing in the best of humours. Ninetta calmly swept up the notes, crushed them into my purse and handed it to me, remarking laconically, “You’d better take this and get over the Apennines to Vernazza, where you can get a passage on board a steamer.”
“I don’t want it all,” I exclaimed. “Only what is mine.”
“Keep it all. It’s yours. They’ve killed your horse,” and before I could say anything further, my fair protector had left the room.
My first impulse was to put as much distance as possible between myself and the uncouth crowd, but on reflection I remembered that there was no other house for miles, that I knew nothing of the country, and if I started out on foot I was liable to be attacked by the thieves who infested the district. I therefore put on a bold front and asked old Vincenti to give me a lodging for the night. He picked up a guttering candle, called Ninetta, and told her to show me upstairs. We entered a large chamber that had evidently once been the ball-room of the villa. There were several beds in it, and on a table beside one she placed the candle, and was about to leave when I detained her.