United States or Egypt ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Silvestro's shoulders told a tale. He had turned on his face, but his shoulders were enough. Lord, Lord, look at that! Scorn in his conqueror gave way to amazement, amazement to disgust, disgust to contempt. Last came pity. Who'd have thought such a leggy lad such a green one? He was crying like a girl. Castracane had no malice in him: he was sorry for those sobbing shoulders.
I will have no poachers, mind. Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door do you hear? No one shall carry a gun within my woods." Silvestro's lips form to two single words, and these come very faint: "The poor!" Then he holds himself together, terrified. "The poor!" retorts the marchesa, defiantly "the poor! For shame, Silvestro!
The words have been spoken. Knowing his mistress's temper, Silvestro imperceptibly glides toward the door as he mentions that body "The Town Council has decreed " His words die away in his throat at her aspect. "Santo dei Santi!" she screams, boiling over with rage, "I forbid you to talk to me of the Town Council!" Silvestro's hand is upon the lock to insure escape.
Consoled by this reflection, he knocks. A well-known voice answers, "Come in." Silvestro's clammy hand is on the lock a worm-eaten door creaks on its hinges he enters. The marchesa nods to Silvestro without speaking. She is seated before a high desk of carved walnut-wood, facing the door. The desk is covered with papers. A file of papers is in her hand; others lie upon her lap.
The sindaco having sent a boy up to Silvestro's house with the marchesa's message, "that he is to attend her," the steward comes hurrying down through the terraces cut in the steep ground behind the villa broad, stately terraces, with balustrades, and big empty vases, and statues, and grand old lemon-trees set about.
It was certainly a night of wonder. Castracane's arm slipped down to Silvestro's waist; Silvestro sighed, and snuggled into the haven it made. "O holy night!" said he. "Now might miracles happen, and we be by." "Ah," said Castracane, "the miracle of choice would be an angel with a basket of bread and cheese or a beautiful maiden to come and lie in one's arms." Silvestro thrilled.
Silvestro blushed; Castracane pinched his cheek, which made matters worse. They took the road together through the deep hedges of the valley. Monte Venda rose before them, dark with woods. Castracane's arm was round Silvestro's waist: every twenty yards they stopped. "To think of it!" cried Castracane, on one of these breathless halts.
The sound of his footsteps brings a whole pack of dogs rushing out upon the gravel. One noble mastiff, with long white hair and strong straight limbs the leader of the pack pursues Silvestro up the dark, tiring stairs. When the mastiff has reached him and smelt at him he stands still, wags his tail, and thrusts his nose into Silvestro's hand. "Poor Argo!" says the steward, meekly.
Word Of The Day