They passed many wounded as they hurried along, and to each one the big
man would call out cheerily. Lucia wished she could understand what he
said, or even what language he spoke. It was not German, of course,
and she did not think it was French.

"Perhaps he was a tourist?" she asked him shyly, but he shook his head.

"I don't get you, I'm sorry. I'm an American, you see."

"Oh, Americano!" Lucia clapped her hands delightedly. "I am glad, I
thought so, American is the name of the tourists, just as I guessed,"
she replied. "I have heard of Americans and I have seen some in the
summer, but they were not like you."

She looked up in his face and smiled.

The American did not understand a word of her Italian, but he saw the
smile, and answered it with a good-natured grin.

"You're a funny kid," he said. "I wish I could find out what you are
talking about, and where you got ahold of that queer rig and the goat."

They had reached the other gate by now, and they hurried through it and
to the convent.

Several of the sisters had returned, and there were doctors and nurses
all busy in the long room where, the night before, Lucia had left
Roderigo and Sister Francesca.