OUTWITTED. A TALE OF THE ABRUZZI.

I.

It was a warm afternoon in April, and the sun was blazing hotly down upon the wooded heights of the Abruzzi and upon the marble cliff against which nestles the little village of Palenella.

The blue-green aloes were unfurling their sharp-pointed leaves in the clefts and crannies of the rocks above, and every now and then the wild roses sent a pink shower fluttering down to the flat roofs below, where maize and wheat were spread out to dry in the sun.

Lucia Ceprano was sitting at the door of her gray stone cottage this hot afternoon, busily engaged in peeling and splitting willow rods preparatory to mending a certain dilapidated old basket which lay on the ground beside her.

The stony village street was silent, and not a creature was visible but herself, except, indeed, a few fowls which were promenading in the sun, and some little black pigs which lay sleeping with outstretched legs in sundry dusty hollows.

The fact was, that the whole population of Palenella was gone to take part in a procession in the little town of Palene. Not a creature had stayed at home but Lucia Ceprano; and no one now was surprised at this or anything else she took it into her head to do, for the villagers had made up their minds that she was “cracked.”

Lucia had refused the wealthiest young men in the district; Lucia owned property, yet she worked as hard as if she were poor; Lucia did not dance the tarantella, was not merry, would not have a lover, and never beat her mule, even when he was as obstinate as only a mule can be!

Such was the indictment against her; and in an out-of-the-way village like Palenella, where every one was about five hundred years behind the outside world, any one of these eccentricities would have been quite enough to make people call her crazy.

Then again, though she certainly was beautiful, it was in a very different style from her neighbors; indeed, she was of quite a different type from what one usually sees anywhere in the whole district, as far South as Naples.

The women in these parts are small, agile, and graceful, with pretty little dark brown faces, small, sharp noses, pouting lips, and wild curly hair, almost entirely covering their low foreheads. They are light-hearted creatures, laughing and chattering the whole day long; and in character they are an odd mixture of carelessness, shrewdness, passion, cunning, and narrow-mindedness.

Lucia, on the other hand, was well grown and stately-looking; her face was oval, and she had smooth black hair and wonderful deep brown, tranquil eyes, which seemed to look thoughtfully at everything; and her mouth, though well-formed and full-lipped, was firmly closed; she moved about in a dignified, deliberate way, and she was reckoned the most unsociable girl in the village, for she never spoke a word more than was actually necessary.

The very fact of her being so unlike other village girls, however, caused Lucia to be quite the rage at one time. All the young men for miles round were crazy about her, and she had as many offers as there were Sundays in the year; for she had other attractions besides her beauty. Every one knew that besides the very tolerable property in Palenella, which was all her own and quite unencumbered, Lucia also possessed 10,000 lire, or something over 400l., in the national bank of Rome, so that for these parts she was a considerable heiress.

Lucia allowed her suitors to say their say without interruption, and then raising those calm, wonderful eyes, and looking steadily at them for the space of a second, she announced that she had no intention of marrying.

Things had gone on in this way from Lucia’s fifteenth birthday for five years; every Sunday and holiday some one made her an offer, and every Sunday and holiday some one was refused, until she gave up answering at all, and merely waved her lovers off with a gesture of her hand, neither more nor less than contemptuous.

The young men had taken offence at her behavior at last, and now revenged themselves by pronouncing her cracked, and leaving her to herself. All but one of them at least did so, and he was the son of a wealthy farmer, Pietro Antonio by name, who lived higher up among the mountains. Pietro was not so easily to be got rid of as the rest, and, do what she would, he followed her everywhere, lying in wait for her at the fêtes and processions, watching for her at church and market, and persecuting her to such an extent, now with pretty speeches and entreaties, and now with angry threats, that at last Lucia gave up going to the fêtes, and did not even venture to church except in the late evening, when she could do so unobserved.

For Pietro was a wild, passionate youth, with something of the savage about him, and as Lucia disliked him even more than her other suitors, she had determined to stay at home this afternoon for fear she should meet him at Palene and be exposed to his vehement importunities.

She had therefore been alone for some hours; but now she heard a distant sound of voices, laughing and chattering. The villagers were coming back, and were climbing the rocky pathway which led to their homes, and soon the little street was all alive again.

At the first sound of their approach, Lucia had retreated into the cottage, and set about warming up the polenta for her mother; and as she stood in the large kitchen, with the blaze from the fire lighting up her grave, madonna-like face, this personage came in.

She was an old, grey-haired woman, but there was an almost wild glare in her small, sharp eyes, as she glanced angrily at the girl.

“What a shame it is!” she cried, pulling off her red silk neck-kerchief and kicking away a chair. “The idea of my being the only woman to have an unmarried daughter! Here I am pointed at by every one! I’m the mother of the ‘crazy girl,’ forsooth, and I can’t show my face anywhere!”

“Bah!”said Lucia, without looking up from the fire; “where can’t you show your face?”

“Why, neither in the village nor in the whole country round,”returned the old woman, passionately.

“Don’t you trouble yourself about any of their gossip, mother; and don’t force me to marry, for I can’t take any of the young men about here,” said Lucia, calmly.

“Forced you will be, sooner or later,” returned her mother. “One of them will cut off your hair, and then you know you must marry him, whether you like it or not,” she added dolefully.

“Shame on the men here, then!” exclaimed Lucia, with flaming eyes. “Shame on any man who forces a woman to marry him by such means! lying in wait to cut off her hair, and then making a show of it in the village until the poor thing is obliged to marry the thief, or she will be forever disgraced and never get another husband! Shame on men who win their wives in this fashion!”

“Ah, well! it has been the taming of a good many obstinate girls for all that, and they are happy enough now. Look at Emilia Mantori and Teresina,”continued the mother; “they held out for a couple of years, and then one fine day they lost their plaits! They came back from the fields with their hair cut short; the boys hooted them down the street, and three weeks later there were two merry weddings, and now it is all as right as can be!”

“I hope that will never be my fate, mother,”said Lucia; “never!” and she clenched her brown hand with its long, shapely fingers, while all the blood left her lips. “If people behave like brigands, they may expect to be treated like brigands. Any one who lays a finger on my hair will have to look out for himself, as all the ruffians about here know full well, and so they keep their distance.”

“Our lads are not ruffians; they may be a little wild, but there are some good fellows among them.”

“I don’t know a single one, then, and I won’t marry a soul here. If ever I am married, it shall not be to a man who will beat me and make me work just as if I were a mule; and you know very well that is what all the men do here in the Abruzzi, so why do you go on complaining and fault-finding? I tell you what will be the end of it, if you go on scolding and worrying, you will drive me away, and I shall go to Rome and open some sort of little shop—”

“And leave your mother here in poverty and misery!”

“You are not poor, mother, for you can stay here as long as you live, and there is quite enough to keep you well, without your having to work hard. Besides, I don’t want to leave you at all, as long as you don’t want to force me into a marriage I hate!”

“Very well, I won’t, then,”said the old woman. “Stay as you are, since you will have your own way.”

By this time the sun was almost setting, and a flood of red-gold light was pouring in through the open door; the mountains were all bathed in purple vapor, and the still warm evening air was fragrant with the scent of roses, geraniums, and lavender.

The mother and daughter had eaten their supper in silence, and Lucia had just risen to take away the things, when a shadow fell across the threshold, and on Lucia’s looking up, a bold voice said, “Good evening, signorina.”

The speaker was a fine young man wearing a blue velvet jacket, high-crowned hat, and a large woollen scarf, which was knotted round his waist, and he was looking passionately at Lucia with his piercing, coal-black eyes.

“Do you want to see my mother?” asked Lucia, in anything but an encouraging manner.

“No; I want to see you, signorina,” answered the young man, with much polite suavity, taking off his hat as he spoke.

“If you are come to say the same as before, Pietro Antonio, you may spare yourself the trouble,” said Lucia, clearly and firmly.

“Then you won’t let me come into your house, Lucia Ceprano?” asked the young man, with a sudden contraction of his thin-lipped mouth, and a look in his eyes not unlike that of an enraged tiger.

“The door is open, you can come in,” said Lucia, calmly, “and you can talk to my mother if you like;” and with that she left the room by the back-door, and went out into the little garden which was fenced round with aloe bushes.

Meantime Pietro stepped into the cottage, and throwing his hat upon the table, sat down opposite the old woman, saying, “You don’t seem to have made much progress, Mother Ceprano.”

“You can see for yourself,”said she, in a low voice.

“Then she will soon be off to Rome, and you will have to work like the rest,” said the young man, without any apparent malice, “for everything here belongs to her. It was her father’s property, I know, and settled on her.”

“She will let me have it,”said the old woman, dejectedly.

“But she won’t go on doing all the work for you! She works for you both now; and then there’s the interest of her money; of course she will want that for herself when she is in Rome,” continued the young man, casting a sharp sidelong glance at the old woman as he spoke. “Yes, your comfortable, easy-going life will be quite at an end, mother, unless—but perhaps she is going to take you with her?” inquired Pietro, in a tone of much sympathy.

“I’m sure I don’t know; but she was saying only this very day again that go she would, and I believe she will.”

“Ah!”returned the young man, his lips working with suppressed passion, “then you will just have to hire a couple of strong women to do your field work—that’s all!”

“You know very well there’s not land enough to keep three people,”retorted the mother, angrily.

“Then keep the girl!” said Pietro, lightly.

“Keep her! keep her! it’s easy talking; pray, can you keep her, Pietro Antonio?”

“Yes, I can, if you will help me,” said the young man, softly.

He rose from his seat, and going to the back-door, peered out into the garden. But Lucia was not there. No doubt, thought he to himself, she had gone out somewhere to avoid the chance of encountering him again. At all events, she was safe out of the way; and closing the door again, he drew his chair nearer to the old woman, and said in a low tone, “Look here, mother, I can force her to stay here. She wouldn’t be the first girl who found herself obliged to marry the man who wanted her! You know what I mean; and though it would be a real pity to spoil her hair, such beautiful hair as it is, too—still—”

“And what if she were to stab you, Pietro? You don’t know what she is,” and the old woman looked uneasily at the floor.

“It will be your business to take care that she can’t do anything of the kind. Take her knife away when she is asleep, hide me in the garden and let me in when it is all safe. When she wakes up again the plait will be mine, and then we shall be all right.”

“She will turn me out of the house when she knows, and I shall be worse off than ever,”returned Mother Ceprano, anxiously.

“I shall be there to look after you, shan’t I? and won’t it all be for her own happiness? You know I am the richest fellow in the whole district, and there isn’t another girl who would refuse me. You know yourself she couldn’t make a better match, and her refusing me is nothing but a whim; and if you give way to her, she will end by being an old maid herself, and making you into a common working woman—so there!”

“Yes, I know that; it’s all true enough, and it would be a real blessing for us all—for you and me and herself—if she would have you; but I say you don’t know her, Pietro, you don’t know her, and I am certain some mischief will come of it.”

“Bah! that’s all talk—a woman indeed—that would be a new idea,” said Pietro, with a contemptuous laugh. “I’ll soon tame her! The prouder and wilder they are to begin with, the tamer and more gentle they are afterwards. When I carry her plait through the streets—and that’s what I will do if she makes any more fuss—she will follow me like a lamb, see if she won’t! There has never been a girl in these parts yet who has been disgraced in this way without being thankful to marry the only man who could give her back her good name.”

“Ay,”interposed the mother, in a frightened tone, “but then she is not like other girls. You are strong and clever, and thought a great deal of, and you are the chief man in the place for miles round; but where is the good of all that if she hates you, and perhaps does you some injury, and turns me out of doors?”

“She doesn’t hate me, it’s only her childish pride; I know all about that, and it does not trouble me a bit,”returned Pietro, coolly. “You know I have promised to settle so much a year upon you if she marries me, and I will engage that you shall stay here and have the use of the cottage and the land rent-free, and be able to keep a servant. There! So now, please to make up your mind at once, mother. Will you or won’t you? yes or no?”

“I can’t—I daren’t.”

“Then be poor, as poor as the poorest in the place! Work is wholesome; those who work long, live long! Good-bye, Mother Ceprano,” said the young man, scornfully, moving to the door as he spoke.

“Stay!” cried the old woman, hoarsely. “I’ll do it.”

“When?”asked Pietro, still standing in the doorway.

“I will send you a message when I think there is a good chance. I shall only say that I want you to come and speak to me, and then you can come about eleven o’clock that night.”

“Well, then, it’s settled, mind. Be careful, don’t gossip, and, above all, keep your word.”

“I shall keep my word,” said old Mother Ceprano, gloomily, as she accompanied Pietro to the door; and as she went back into the now dark kitchen, she muttered, “She can’t make a better match; he is rich, very rich, and he is looked up to, and he is handsome, and there are others worse than he. She will be all right, and what he says is quite true; it is only a whim.”

II.

Early the next morning, before her mother was astir, Lucia was up and busy in the yard; and after fetching the mule from his stable and loading him with a couple of large flat baskets full of onions, she mounted him herself, and trotted off towards Palene.

Lucia’s dress was like that of the other peasant women, and consisted of a red silk kerchief tied closely over the head; another of yellow, which covered her shoulders, was crossed over her chest and tied behind; and a green woollen gown. Her beautiful black hair was smoothly braided in one long thick plait, which hung down her back. So far there was nothing remarkable about her costume; but she also wore what was peculiar to herself, a leather belt with a metal sheath and a large gardening knife stuck in it. She kept her hand almost constantly upon this weapon, a circumstance which gave her a rather savage Amazon-like appearance, strangely at variance with her calm madonna face, and smooth hair.

But as the mule jogged on through the fresh morning air, and Lucia watched the golden sunlight playing on the rocks above and the fields below, her thoughts were anything but savage, for she was saying to herself, “Who would think that human beings could be so wicked when one sees how beautiful and peaceful, and happy everything is? They don’t notice it, for they are like animals still; they live like wild beasts. It is different in towns; it is better even in Palene, but how very different it must be in Rome, or Florence, or Naples! There, so I have read, people are good and gentle, and forgiving. They don’t love like wolves and hate like tigers. I know just one man myself, but then he is a foreigner, and they would be certain to kill him if I married him. Couldn’t we escape to Rome?” pursued the maiden thoughtfully, bending her body down over the mule. “But no,” she went on, “they would find him out even in Rome, and one fine day he would be found dead and I should have murdered him.”

The mule, finding that his mistress was not paying any heed to him, now stood quite still and put down his head to crop a few mouthfuls of grass. But this roused Lucia from her dreams, and taking hold of the reins and uttering a loud “Aia!” she put him to a quicker pace, and in a few minutes more they had reached the end of their journey.

The little town of Palene consists of three narrow streets, a small market-place, a municipal building, and a tolerably large and handsome church. Facing the market-place are two houses rather superior to the rest, which are painted pink and blue, and have bright green blinds. One of the two, at the time of which we are writing, was a shop kept by a man named Lugeno, who called himself a “general-dealer, barber, coffee-house and tavern keeper.” In front of the shop stood a table and four chairs, while baskets of fruit and vegetables stood about the entrance, and over the door hung half-a-dozen cages containing canary birds.

The owner of this miscellaneous business, Don Ernano Lugeno, was standing at his shop-door enjoying the fine spring air, and comfortably smoking a short meerschaum, as Lucia came up on her mule. Now people in Palene do not smoke meerschaums, so this circumstance alone was enough to suggest the idea of his being a foreigner, and the impression was only confirmed by a glance at the man’s face and figure. With his broad shoulders, yellow hair, fresh complexion, golden beard, and bright, deep-blue eyes, Don Lugeno was the perfect type of the northern giant, in spite of his Italian name. In truth his real name was Hermann Lütgens, and he was a native of Pomerania, but some accident had brought him to Italy when a boy, and there he had remained ever since. He was now about thirty, and for the last ten years he had been in business at Palene; but in spite of the numerous strings to his bow, already mentioned, he did not get on very well, and in fact, made but a very poor living. Yet he was very industrious, and in addition to selling green-grocery, singing-birds, coffee and wine, he repaired watches, mended tables and chairs, put in window panes and painted beautiful sign-boards; so that he was looked upon as quite indispensable in all times of need, and was highly popular with everybody for his cheerful, obliging temper, and not less for his moderate charges. Still Don Lugeno did not prosper, and the reason was that he had one darling passion; he was an ardent sportsman, and every now and then he would disappear for two or three days into the woods, quite forgetting his business and his customers; and when at length he came home looking dishevelled and half wild, he seldom brought with him more than a lean hare, a small marten, or a miserable quail. In spite of his small success, however, Don Lugeno could not break himself of his love of sport, and it was this which kept him a poor man.

Still, in spite of his poverty, all the women in the place, whether old or young, had a very kind feeling for Don Ernano, as he was called (all the people in the place being usually known by their Christian names), and, if he had been so inclined, he might several times have made such a match as would have raised him at once to a position of ease and comfort. But he was not inclined to give up his liberty, or so it seemed, and the men liked him all the better, for being, as they believed, a woman-hater.

Whether, however, he really was the inveterate woman-hater he was supposed to be might reasonably have been doubted by any one who had chanced to observe how instantly his face lighted up when Lucia and her mule turned the corner into the market-place. They were coming to him, of course, for Lucia supplied his shop with vegetables, and had done so for years. He had known her and dealt with her ever since her childhood, and now that she was a woman, and a beautiful woman into the bargain, it had more than once crossed his mind that, if he could afford to marry, there was no one in the whole neighborhood whom he should like so well to call his wife as Lucia Ceprano. Well as he knew her, however, he was far too shy, and far too humble to hint at such an idea, for Lucia was an heiress—a great heiress for those parts, and he—how could he have the face to ask her to marry a poor man like himself, when she might have the choice of all the young men for miles round? Still, though he drove the thought away as often as it rose, it only returned again, and each time, somehow, it looked more fascinating than before. If only he were better off, if only he could get away from Palene to some more civilised place and ask Lucia to go with him, he felt as if he could do anything, even give up his sporting tastes, and settle down steadily. But it was of no use thinking of such a thing; for even if all the other difficulties were disposed of, what right had he to suppose that she cared a straw about him, except as a good customer for her garden produce? No, the idea must be put away; and to assist him in getting rid of it, Don Ernano went out for two or three days’ shooting, and when he came back he was poorer, and his home looked more desolate than ever, and the first thought which entered his mind, as he crossed the threshold, was, “How different it would be if Lucia were here to see after things!”

Altogether, therefore, the poor Don’s expeditions were not very successful, and on this particular morning he was feeling a little dejected in spite of his cheerful looks. But the mule stopped at the shop, and as Lucia sprang lightly down, he went forward with a smiling greeting to help her unfasten the heavy baskets.

“Are you quite well, Don Ernano?” asked Lucia, looking up at him with her deep brown eyes. Then, as the giant blushed and turned away to hide his confusion, she added, quickly, for she pitied him for his shyness, “Here are the onions you wanted; beautiful large ones, aren’t they? but can you use so many?”

Don Ernano had apparently not quite recovered his composure, for he pulled his ear for a moment or two without speaking, and then said slowly, “I could use them all, certainly, but—well—the fact is, signorina, I haven’t much ready money just now.”

“Ah! I know,”said Lucia, calmly; “Don Ernano has been out shooting again.”

“The signorina knows?”said Don Ernano, looking at the beautiful girl in amazement.

“Yes, I know, and I have been thinking why it is that you don’t get rich,” pursued Lucia, without a trace of coquetry in her manner. “You are clever and handy, you don’t gamble and you don’t drink; why, you might be the foremost man in the town, and yet you don’t get a step farther. I have come to the conclusion that it is the shooting which is at the bottom of it.”

Don Ernano gazed more and more earnestly at the girl as she spoke, and the sympathy which he read in her face went to his very heart. But he only pulled his ear again, and said rather sheepishly, “The signorina may be right, but it is the only pleasure I have in the world. What am I to do? It is so dreary at home, and sometimes I get bored almost to death.”

“Ah! you ought to marry, Don Ernano,”said Lucia, simply, still busying herself with the onions. “If you had a wife you would have a real home and some one to work for.”

“Yes,”returned the light-haired giant, “marry! it is easy to say, but who would have me, a penniless foreigner? I have thought about it now and then; but it is a hard matter for a man like me to get a good wife.”

“I should not think that,”said Lucia, reflectively, looking at him again as she spoke, for they were old acquaintances these two, and on intimate terms—“I should not think that. You see I have known you ever since I was a little girl, and I know you are good and clever. I dare say, the truth is you like your liberty.”

“Maybe,”returned Don Ernano; and then with sudden gravity he added, “but maybe also the right one has not yet come my way.”

“Ah! then you are fastidious; I understand. Now, Don Ernano, what sort of wife do you want, I wonder? I am quite curious to know.”

“What sort?” repeated the Don, again pulling at his ear, and then adding, in a low tone, “Well, one like yourself, signorina.”

“Me! you are joking!”returned Lucia, with an attempt at a laugh; “why, I am only a small farmer’s daughter.”

“My father was less than a small farmer. He was an iron-worker, and emigrated first to Austria and then to Italy; so you see you are above me, even if I were not as poor as a rat. And as you are so far above me, there is no harm in my saying that a wife like you is just what would suit me, eh?”

“Don Ernano, can you make any use of the onions?” interrupted Lucia, in a frightened tone, without venturing to raise her eyes from the ground.

“Certainly, signorina, if you don’t mind leaving them and letting me settle with you at the end of the month.”

“I’ll trust you,”replied Lucia, hurriedly emptying the baskets; and with a hasty “good-bye,” she reseated herself on the mule and trotted off again to Palenella, leaving Don Ernano half afraid that he had managed to offend her.

III.

As soon as Lucia was well out of the little town, she seemed suddenly to discover that she had plenty of time to spare, for she let the mule walk on as slowly as he pleased, while she herself gazed at the golden hedge of broom which bordered the road, as if she were intent on counting its million blossoms.

Travelling at this pace, it was noon before she reached the village; but instead of receiving her with reproaches for her long absence, as would usually have been the case, her mother spoke so pleasantly, that in spite of her absence of mind, Lucia could not help being struck by it.

She knew how obstinately bent her mother was on getting her married, and she began to feel suspicious and alarmed. “Pietro was here a long time yesterday,” she suddenly thought to herself; “there is something in the wind, no doubt.” And when evening came, without saying a word to any one, Lucia dragged her bed from its place beside her mother’s in the large kitchen, and put it in a little store-room, with a heavy iron door and a grated window.

“Is it possible she can have overheard what we were saying?” thought the old woman, as she watched her daughter’s proceedings in silent dread. But no, that was out of the question, Lucia had spent nearly the whole time of Pietro’s visit in the church, for she herself had met her there later. “It is only another of her whims,” she went on, trying to comfort herself, “and it will be easy to spoil the lock of the door some night before she goes to bed. Pietro Antonio shall not be thwarted, if I can help it.” And having thus made up her mind, she too went to bed; but she was still much perturbed about Lucia’s odd behavior, and she began to fear that the girl would suddenly take herself off to Rome and so escape out of her clutches. The more she thought of it, the more eager she grew to bring about the marriage with Pietro without any further loss of time. “To-morrow she will be hard at work all day,” mused the old woman; “she will be tired out and sleep soundly. I don’t know that there is likely to be a better opportunity.”

All through the night Lucia’s mother lay wide awake, tossing to and fro and revolving her cruel plans in her mind. Early in the morning she sent the previously agreed message to Pietro Antonio, and when evening came she put a stone in the lock of the door, and thought she had made all safe.

Lucia went to her room that night tired out with her day’s work, as her mother had expected; but she was not too tired to notice that there was something amiss with the door. She tried it over and over again, but it was all in vain, the lock would not act, and she gave it up in despair.

She guessed at once what it meant, and for a moment she stood still, trembling and almost gasping for breath; but in another moment she had recovered herself, and made up her mind what to do.

She put out the lamp and laid down on the bed just as she was, without undressing; but after lying there quite still for about an hour she rose again, slipped quietly out to the stable, fetched a great wood-cutter’s axe, and hurried noiselessly back to her chamber.

Once more she lay down, keeping her eyes wide open, listening with all her might, and hardly daring to breathe.

Presently she heard the sound of whispering, then there was a light step in the yard, and in the house.

One bright ray of moonlight shone through the grated window and made a pattern of black and white bars on one patch of the stone floor, but otherwise the room was quite dark, and Lucia now got up and stationed herself in the darkest corner of the room. But all remained quite quiet for nearly another hour, every moment of which seemed a century to the poor girl.

At the end of this time, a faint light appeared through the crack of the door, which was gently pushed open, and then appeared her mother holding a lamp and followed by Pietro Antonio, who had a large pair of vine-shears in his hand.

As they entered, Lucia suddenly advanced from her corner with the axe uplifted. “Come here, you coward, if you dare,” she cried to the young man, who stood there speechless, motionless, and as white as death from surprise and fright.

He looked at the pale-faced girl, looked at the uplifted axe and her strong arms, and slowly moved away without uttering a word, followed by the old woman, who was shaking all over to such a degree that she could hardly stand, while her teeth chattered loud enough to be heard.

They were gone! and all was still again; but Lucia spent the rest of the night sitting on the bed-side, with her beautiful head resting against the hard cold stone wall, without venturing to close her eyes. In the morning she neither spoke to her mother nor prepared the breakfast as was her custom, and kept her mouth more tightly closed than ever.

When she had washed and dressed, and plaited her hair more carefully than usual, she brought out the mule, saddled and bridled him; but to her mother’s immense astonishment, instead of proceeding to load him with vegetables, she just mounted and rode away in the direction of Palene.

The mule trotted along merrily and quickly, but as it was still very early, Lucia stopped him after a while and allowed him to graze, while she got down and lay on the grass, resting her weary head on her hand and gazing into the distance with her large brown eyes. Little by little her pale face brightened, and began to lose the hard look it had worn since the previous night. She even began to smile a little and looked almost happy. At last some pleasant thought seemed to strike her, for she actually laughed and blushed, and then getting up and calling her mule, she went on her way.

In little more than half an hour she was again standing before Don Ernano’s shop in the market-place.

“Ah, signorina, you are early indeed to-day,” he began; then glancing at the unloaded mule, he went on, “you want the onions back, no doubt? I was afraid Mother Ceprano——”

“I did not come about that,”replied Lucia abruptly, with an odd shy smile. “I came to-day to ask your services as hair-dresser; you cut and dress hair, I know. Will you be so good as to cut off my hair?”

“What, signorina!”cried the horrified barber, “cut off your beautiful hair! No, you don’t mean it, I couldn’t have the heart!”

“Are you a barber, Don Ernano?” asked Lucia with the gravity and firmness peculiar to her.

“Yes, it is on the sign-board, and I cut anybody’s hair when I am asked, but—but—do you want to sell your beautiful plait?” he asked, with quite a sad expression in his kind eyes.

“No, I don’t want to sell it, but I want it cut off, and I have come to ask you to do it for me,” answered Lucia firmly and decidedly.

“Must I really?” said Don Ernano, feeling a little cast down by the girl’s energetic tone and manner.

“Yes—you must—if you will,” was her rather odd answer, and therewith she hurried into the shop.

“If you knew how it grieved me!” began the barber again. “Is it a vow, signorina?”

“Something of the sort, but it is more than that to me,”was the short answer.

“Then you have quite made up your mind?” he ventured to ask once more.

“Will you do it or will you not, Don Ernano?” asked Lucia as if she were much offended and would leave the shop.

“Well—if it really must be done—please to sit down, signorina,” said the barber, moving reluctantly to the cupboard in which he kept his implements.

Just at this moment two men came into the shop, and said with a sly glance at his fair customer, “You’re engaged, Don Ernano?”

“At your service in a moment, gentlemen,” he answered; then bending over Lucia and taking her great plait, which was almost as thick as her arm, in his hand, he said in a low tone, “You will have just a little bit left?”

“No, cut it off close,”answered Lucia in a whisper.

Don Ernano gently put her head in the right position; and Lucia, looking calmly and cheerfully into the little glass before her, could see with what a dismal countenance the light-haired giant went about his task, which was no such easy one, and took some minutes to accomplish. It was done at last, however, and the barber held the severed plait in his hands, his face wearing a very troubled expression.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Lucia, rising and bowing to the two men; “good morning, Don Ernano!” and before he had recovered from his astonishment, Lucia was out of the shop and trotting away on her mule, leaving him to look after her and shake his head in perplexity, while he still held the beautifully plaited tail of hair in his hands.

“A very pretty customer, signor!” said his visitors, who had not heard all that had passed.

“A lovely girl,” answered Don Ernano thoughtfully, “but strange, very strange, I can’t make her out.”

“Have you bought the plait?”they asked.

The barber shook his head gravely.

“What then?” they asked with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” was the short answer, as the barber made hurried preparations for shaving his customers.

He was anything but nervous in a general way, but to-day his hand trembled so much that he would certainly have performed his duties very clumsily if he had not made a great effort to recover his self-command.

“What does it mean?” he muttered, when he found himself once more alone. “What am I to do with it? I wonder whether it is a vow; I know the women about here do make strange vows sometimes; but she is so clever and sensible and not at all superstitious.”

Don Ernano thought over the affair for some time, but as he could not arrive at any conclusion, he locked the plait of hair up in his cupboard, and spent the next few hours in a rather uncomfortable state of mind, feeling that he was involved against his will in a matter which he did not understand.

IV.

Lucia reached Palenella again about midday, and rode into the village holding in her hand the kerchief she usually wore on her head, a circumstance which of itself would have been enough to attract attention, since uncovered heads were rarely seen in the village. But, as the absence of the kerchief revealed the fact that her heavy plait had disappeared leaving only a short, stubbly stump to show where once it had been, it was not many minutes before the whole village was exclaiming, “Lucia’s hair has been cut off!”

The news had spread like wild fire even before Lucia reached her own door, and was speedily confirmed, if confirmation were needed, by the fearful outburst of weeping and wailing with which Mother Ceprano received her disfigured daughter.

The old woman wrung her hands, tore her hair, uttered maledictions, screamed and howled so wildly that she was heard even in the farthermost houses, and the whole population speedily collected round the house.

Lucia had not yet dismounted, and there she now sat on the mule, looking perfectly calm and collected, while the children danced round her mocking and jeering, and the men and women whispered and gazed in astonishment.

It must be confessed that the villagers’ first feeling was one of hearty satisfaction in the proud Lucia’s humiliation. But they quite expected to see some young man appear waving the plait in triumph, and when they found this did not happen, their gratification gave way to wrath and indignation against the unknown person who had done the deed. The pride of the whole community was hurt, and wild voices were heard shouting, “Whoever it was he shall not go unpunished! A girl of our village—he has insulted us all, every one—he shall make it good or pay for it with his life!”

The men doubled their fists and raised their arms, uttering savage threats and imprecations, as they pressed round Lucia who sat like a statue, watching the growing excitement and tumult with intense interest.

“Who was it? who did it?” they shouted to her from all sides. “Do you know him? Who has dared to insult you and all of us? You must say who it is!” were the cries uttered in various tones by a hundred angry men and women.

“He must marry you, he must, or he shall die! Who was it? who?”

“A man in Palene,”answered Lucia in a clear voice.

“Palene? he shall die if he won’t do his duty. But what is his name?”

“Don Ernano!”

“What, he? a foreigner! the light-haired man! the sportsman!” cried several voices.

“It’s all the same,” screamed others, “it’s just the same. It would make no difference if he were a townsman—he shall die if he won’t do you justice and restore you to honor; yes, he shall die by our hands,” cried all, old and young, with angry, flashing eyes.

“He must give the village satisfaction at once,” cried one who had taken the lead; “I will go to him now. Take your knives, my men, and say who’ll go with me?”

“I! I!”cried at least twenty voices and a number of men separated from the rest and started off at a rapid pace along the road to Palene.

Lucia now dismounted, led the mule into his stable and retreated to her dismal little room out of her mother’s way. Here she sat down quite exhausted on the only chair it contained, and drew a deep breath.

“Now no one can kill him for marrying me, for they will make him,” she said softly to herself, “and he won’t refuse. He likes me, I’m sure of that now, and Pietro Antonio won’t dare to touch him, for he would have the whole village against him.”

It was about an hour after all this commotion that the first of the Palenella peasants entered Don Ernano’s wineshop and called for a tumbler of wine. In a few seconds more another came in, and then a third, and before the barber knew where he was, his room was filled with peasants, all of whom carried knives in their gay-colored sashes, and looked very menacing.

Don Lugeno, though peaceably disposed, was a brave man enough, but he could not help feeling somewhat aghast on the present occasion, for there was evidently something strange about his visitors.

“Don Ernano,” began the spokesman, “you have cut off the plait of one of our girls—eh? is it so?”

“Yes!”returned the barber with some embarrassment, but without the slightest suspicion of what was meant, or what the question boded.

“Have you the plait?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then please to show it to us.”

The barber went and fetched it from the cupboard and held it up, saying, “Here it is.”

“You know the girl?”they inquired further.

“Yes, it is Lucia Ceprano; I have known her a long time.”

“Good! Will you marry her?”inquired the leader suddenly stepping up to the barber.

“Marry—Lucia Ceprano?” exclaimed Don Ernano quite taken a-back.

“Will you?” and a dozen large knives flashed into the air, while in an instant the men had closed the entrance into the shop, surrounded the terrified owner and driven him into a corner.

“Yes or no?” said they in suppressed tones.

Lugeno looked from one to the other and tried to collect himself. He saw plainly enough that it was no laughing matter, for the men were looking at him with an expression of deadly hatred in their eyes, and they looked so sullen and determined that he felt he had never before been so immediately face to face with death. He could hardly breathe, but he struggled to say, “Only tell me——”

“Still, man,”whispered the ringleader; “no shirking, and no unnecessary words. Answer me; will you marry Lucia Ceprano of Palenella, whose plait you have cut off, or not? Say you will, now, this instant, without any humbug, or in two minutes you are a dead man, as sure as we all stand here!”

A gleam of joy and relief came into Don Ernano’s eyes; he breathed more freely, and wiping his forehead, said with a smile, “Why, of course I will, my men, with all my heart, if she will have me.”

“She must!”was the rejoinder, spoken in tones of as much determination as before. “Then you swear, here before us, to marry Lucia, as soon as possible, at all events within the month, and you will be married in our church, by our priest?”

“I swear it,”said the barber with great alacrity.

“That’s well; and you have acted wisely, master, let me tell you, for you would not have left your shop alive otherwise!”

Thereupon the men put up their knives, ordered some wine, each separately drank to the health of the still bewildered Don Ernano, bade him a polite farewell, and returned to the village. The evening was not far advanced when they reached Palenella, and going straight to Mother Ceprano’s house, they found her still lamenting and vituperating the rascal who had done the evil deed, while Lucia was sitting contentedly at the table eating her supper with a good appetite.

“We have good news for you, Lucia,” cried a dozen voices; “he’ll marry you. He has solemnly sworn to marry you within the month. You may be quite easy about it, for he will do all that is right by you, and he will give us satisfaction. He is a clever man, much respected, and as good as anyone in the village.”

“Thank you, my friends, I am quite satisfied. You have done me a good turn and I’ll never forget it,”said Lucia, looking positively radiant with happiness.

That night the village was a long time in settling down to its usual state of quietness; for the men felt they had achieved a grand victory and could do no less than celebrate it, little guessing, of course, that they had been outwitted by a girl, and that so far from being the victors they had actually been defeated, and had had their own weapons turned against them.

Meanwhile, in spite of her happiness, Lucia was feeling a little uneasy as to the way in which Don Lugeno might view her conduct, and very early in the morning she was in the shop again. So early was she, indeed, that he did not hear her enter, as he was busy with his coffee in the kitchen.

“Don Ernano,” began Lucia in a humble, tremulous tone, “can you forgive me?”

The barber turned round like a flash of lightning.

“Lucia! Lucia!” he exclaimed joyously; “but, my dear girl, do for mercy’s sake tell me what it all means. Is it true? Am I really to marry you?”

“Do you mind very much, signore? I thought—I fancied—”said poor Lucia, trembling, and panting for breath.

“Mind! Ah, signorina, it is not that; I am only too happy to think I am to have such a dear, good, beautiful wife,” said Lugeno consolingly, and his manner was so hearty as to leave no room for doubt as to his sincerity. “My dearest girl, don’t cry; this happiness has come upon me like a—like a thunder-bolt. You’re the very wife I should have chosen above all others; but I don’t understand what has happened, or how it has all come about. Why, I have been forced to accept happiness such as I dared not even dream of at the point of twenty knives! How is it, dear signorina? And why did you make me cut off your plait?”

Don Ernano spoke so kindly and pleasantly that Lucia had soon dried her tears, and now looking up at him with a beaming face, she said, “I will tell you all about it, Don Ernano. You see I was obliged to do as I did, or you could not have married me without incurring the vengeance of that wicked Pietro who is very angry at my refusing him. Now you are under the protection of the whole village, and he will take good care not to come in your way.”

Then Lucia went on to tell her lover all the ins and outs of the affair, and how, after Pietro’s attempt two nights ago, she had made up her mind to get him to cut off her hair rather than let anyone else do so.

“And now will you forgive me?” she asked in a gentle, shame faced tone.

“Forgive? I’ll thank you with all my heart, you dear, brave, clever girl. I declare you are wiser and cleverer than the wisest lawyer,” and drawing the tall, handsome village maiden to him, he gave her a long kiss, which was cordially returned.

“What a pity about your beautiful hair! I wish it were grown again,” said he, tenderly stroking his bride’s close-cropped head.

“Well, you are a hair-dresser, so you must see what you can do,” said Lucia; “but I have made a good exchange. Where is the girl who would not sacrifice the finest head of hair for a good husband, especially,” she added shyly, “when the lover himself cut it off?”

While Lucia and Don Ernano were thus pleasantly engaged, there had been a great disturbance at Palenella. Pietro Antonio, having just heard all that had happened, had hurried to the village in a furious passion. First he poured out his wrath on the peasants for their stupidity, and then tried to set them against the barber, whom he had always hated, and now of course detested more than ever. He told the peasants that he was a crafty rascal, that he and the girl understood one another, and had acted in concert, and that he only wanted her money.

But he soon found that this would not do. The villagers had no mind to be robbed of their triumph, and were quite certain they understood the matter better than he did, and they used such forcible arguments to convince Pietro of the justice of their views, that he retired to his bed for a fortnight, and after that, not only gave Palenella a very wide berth, but soon left the district and went to Naples.

Mother Ceprano behaved in a most amiable and polite manner to her future son-in-law, who, by Lucia’s advice, determined to let the little property at Palenella and allow his mother-in-law the rent of it for her life. Also he made up his mind to sell his business in Palene and have a nice barber’s shop and small café in Rome, where he and Lucia would do their utmost to please their customers.

Three weeks later the marriage was celebrated with much firing of guns and rockets in the presence not only of the whole village, but of most of the inhabitants of the town of Palene, and there was every reason to hope that it would prove a happy one, in spite of the strange way in which bride and bridegroom had been brought together.—Belgravia.