I cared not to finish my repast, but
prepared to depart. The captain took me by the hand; requested
permission to write to me, and begged me not to forget the passport. I
replied, that I hoped to be of effectual service to him, and that I
relied on his honor to return the prince's note for five hundred
dollars, now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment with
surprise; then, seeming to recollect himself, "E giusto," said he,
"eccoloadio!"[1] He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once more,
and we separated. The laborers were permitted to follow me, and we
resumed with joy our road towards Tusculum.
[Footnote 1: It is just--there it is--adieu!]
* * * * *
The artist ceased to speak; the party continued for a few moments to
pace the shore of Terracina in silence. The story they had heard had
made a deep impression on them, particularly on the fair Venetian, who
had gradually regained her husband's arm. At the part that related to
the young girl of Frosinone, she had been violently affected; sobs
broke from her; she clung close to her husband, and as she looked up to
him as if for protection, the moon-beams shining on her beautifully
fair countenance showed it paler than usual with terror, while tears
glittered in her fine dark eyes. "O caro mio!" would she murmur,
shuddering at every atrocious circumstance of the story.
"Corragio, mia vita!" was the reply, as the husband gently and fondly
tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm.
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