When he finally fluttered, exhausted, into the nest, the old caretaker
caught sight of the bloodstain, and exclaimed in alarm, "Chico, my bird,
what happened?" while Andrea, fairly beside himself, mourned as he stroked
his wounded pet.

"It was the Austrian! I know It was! I liked not his words nor the
expression of his eyes. And now Chico is going to die!"

"Nay, lad," Paolo answered, after carefully examining the leg. "It is only
a flesh wound, and he will soon be himself again. As for the Austrian--I
doubt very much if such was the case. I judge, from what you say, that
he is quite too anxious to get possession of the bird to run any risk of
harming him. More likely some greedy fellow shot him for a pie. I have
known such things to happen in Venice."

"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Maria
whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching the
bird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo."

For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more than
a week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark's
Square.

But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, for
ever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners.

Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon to
Chioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this little
Italian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the long