Across the pitiless clearness of the transparent air there was alone in the arid wastes about him the figure of a pifferaro, a mere lad, singing a barcarolle, whose burden was borne musically and wildly over the marshes as he toiled on his way with his monkey on his shoulder. With lightning quickness, Erceldoune, keeping out of the sight of the monastery-casements, waded through shallow pools and dashed through thickets of osier, till he reached the boy, a bright-eyed, bright-witted Savoyard, with a dirty, tattered sheepskin for clothing, a little ape for a comrade, and a light childish heart that made him happier than a king. Erceldoune glanced at him, and saw both intelligence and frankness in the arch, brown, ruddy face of the little bohemian; he stopped him as the boy was leaping from tuft to tuft of the rank grass that studded the shaking quagmires, and stretched his hand out with a broad gold coin.
"Had you ever so much in your life?"
The Savoyard opened wider his keen, dancing, black eyes.
"Never! Of a truth, signor barcarolo, if that is the fish you angle out of these pools, your craft's a thriving one!"
"You shall get just such fish yourself if you choose.
