gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to rest on behalf
of his companions. They allowed the young mountaineer to close the door,
and sat about his fire like sagacious men. When cooled and refreshed,
Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned thanks for
hospitality. Money was not offered and not expected. As they were going
forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on the threshold, and
with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressed Agostino.

"Signore, is it true?--the king marches?"

"Who is the king, my friend?" returned Agostino. "If he marches out of
his dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance."

"Our king, signore!" The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novara
toward Milan.

Agostino seemed to awaken swiftly from his disguise of an absolute
gravity. A red light stood in his eyeballs, as if upon a fiery answer.
The intemperate fit subsided. Smoothing dawn his mottled grey beard with
quieting hands, he took refuge in his habitual sententious irony.

"My friend, I am not a hare in front of the king, nor am I a ram in the
rear of him: I fly him not, neither do I propel him. So, therefore, I
cannot predict the movements of the king. Will the wind blow from the
north to-morrow, think you?"

The mountaineer sent a quick gaze up the air, as to descry signs.

"Who knows?" Agostino continued, though not playing into the smiles of
his companions; "the wind will blow straight thither where there is a