Perspiring, even as I sat, in the blaze of the
sun, I envied the boy his breath and muscle. Now and then he slaked
his thirst at a stone fountain by the wayside, not without
reverencing the blue-hooded Madonna painted over it. A few lean,
brown peasants, bending under faggots, and one or two carts, passed
us before we gained the top, and half-way up there was a hovel where
drink could be bought; but with these exceptions nothing broke the
loneliness of the long, wild ascent. My man was not talkative, but
answered inquiries civilly; only on one subject was he very curt--
that of the two wooden crosses which we passed just before arriving
at the summit; they meant murders. At the moment when I spoke of
them I was stretching my legs in a walk beside the carriage, the
driver walking just in front of me; and something then happened
which is still a puzzle when I recall it. Whether the thought of
crimes had made the man nervous, or whether just then I wore a
peculiarly truculent face, or had made some alarming gesture, all of
a sudden he turned upon me, grasped my arm and asked sharply: "What
have you got in your hand?" I had a bit of fern, plucked a few
minutes before, and with surprise I showed it; whereupon he murmured
an apology, said something about making haste, and jumped to his
seat.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40