The Red Book Magazine/Volume 40/Number 5/The Pom and the Parrot

by contributor = George Kibbe Turner

 

The Pom and the Parrot

By
George Kibbe Turner

The astonishing adventure of a young American girl alone in Sicily, chronicled most fetchingly by the celebrated author of “White Shoulders,” “Moonlight” and numerous other memorable novels.

Illustrated by
George Wright

SHE awoke—with her stateroom windows open; and the whole place was full of the fragrance of orange blossoms. She jumped up and dressed—just threw herself into her clothes, and rushed out on the deck with Pompom, her darling little Pomeranian, under her arm. And it was all that she had ever dreamed.

She couldn't see Messina yet. They were stealing along—smooth and still and peaceful—the way a steamer does when it comes near the land. And the hills that wonderful gray green, and the blooming orange trees, and the white houses shining out in that first light from the sun against the eastern shore! And all against that wonderful morning sky, blue as the eyes of a waking baby! And every where the faint fragrance of those orange flowers!

“We're going out to one of those places, where those orange trees are, Pompom,” she said, “—when Growley comes,—or my name isn't Spinks Beaufort!”

Illustration: A most terrible expression came into his face. She thought she'd join the procession, but he moved between her and the others, and she had to stop. “This wont do, Pompom," she said under her breath.

And the Pom looked up, warm and brown and sleepy—and yawned with its tiny mouth.

“And there's Messina,” she said to him, seeing it now for the first time on the steep side hill—like a city on a drop-curtain in a theater.

“Oh! Isn't it wonderful—wonderful—wonderful!” she said—laughing aloud, for just the love of it; and then leaning over Pompom and tickling his little nose with her short henna curls, till she made him sneeze. Then she set him down on the deck, and he pranced around her, taking his feet up with funny quickness when they struck the cool, damp deck.

“I'm certainly going to do that,” his mistress was saying to herself, watching the shore where the orange trees were, “—when Growley comes.”

That had been her name for her father—Growley—when she was a little kid in the nursery. They had kept it going ever since.

And so she came into that heavenly soft bright place with the queer shops, and the weird old-fashioned carriages, and the horses with bells and scarlet on their harnesses; and they clattered on up to the hotel—Spinks Beaufort turning her head here and there, almost twisting it off, watching the bright skirts and scarves and shawls on the women, and the brigands of men in the door ways, and the wonderful colored things for sale—cloths and flowers and fruit and copper kettles, and even bright birds in cages.

“Stop!” she said finally, reaching over and pulling at the driver—that smiling pirate ahead of her on the high seat in front. “Stop here! I've just got to buy that parrot.”

For it was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen—all green and red, and in a funny lovely shaped white wicker cage. And she'd always sworn she would have a parrot sometime.

So finally he stopped, and she showed him what she wanted, and they went over to the brown-faced woman in the black waist and red skirt and bought it. Snatched it! For she'd never seen anything so bright and wonderful, and the cage was so strange and old—like one from an old love-story out of Provence.

“I'm going to call you Saladin!” she said to the parrot, when she had him in her lap in the old victoria. For he sat up so straight and defiant and looked back at her so sort of proud and heathen. And Pompom, beside her on the seat under her left arm, barked, his nose out of joint already.

So she went on to the hotel, where the Americans go—where she was to meet her father; and there was a dispatch from him, saying he wouldn't be there from Rome for two days yet.

“All right, then! We're just going over ourselves,” she said to Pompom. “Out to that orange-blossom country—till he comes!”

And she asked the clerk, who talked English perfectly, about where there was a place she could go, where those orange blossoms were, where it would be safe and all that!

For she had been accustomed all her life—since her mother died—to going anywhere she wanted, alone.

And he said, in that Italian way: “Safe—yes! Safe as the shrine of the Madonna!” But would she like it in that rough poor country hotel?

And she said yes—she would just adore it! And so that very afternoon she left nearly all her baggage there, and went out to this town—in one of those old carriages. She could have had an old motor, but she preferred the carriage. And so she rattled out over the cobblestones, and into the country—taking Pompom, of course, as she did everywhere. And of course the parrot Saladin too! For she couldn't leave him behind very well; and while it was a little awkward, still, she thought how perfectly wonderful he would look, hanging in a room in a country inn, in one of those strange gorgeous towns.

“He'll complain, probably,” said Spinks Beaufort to Pompom, speaking of her father, “when he finds it out. But he wont mind when he hears what a gorgeous time we are having, will he?”

For she nearly always did just what she wanted, and told him about it afterward.

Then she offered the Pom one of those wonderful candied fruits she'd bought, and when he turned up his nose at it, gave it to Saladin—who was crazy for it.

And then she settled down and enjoyed herself—as she never thought she could in this world—taking it all in. It was blissful—simply blissful. She saw and smelled orange trees till she was saturated with the fragrance. And she saw the old olive trees, with their lovely green tops, like little gnarled apple trees all over the hillside. And then there were children turning cart wheels for a penny or whatever the little coin was. She had a regular procession of them—after she had thrown out money to one—coming turning cartwheels after her down the road.

And so she poked along and poked along in that old ark of a carriage, until it was almost evening, and the goats were coming home along the gray-white roads, and the people were sitting outside their doors eating. And finally they came rattling into this little town—with its houses of soft cream and gray and lemon-color and faint blue—wonderful soft pastel colors. And the weirdest smells you ever smelled, especially after the perfume of orange blossoms on the road! And there were already shadows between the buildings and in the different colored alleyways when she finally came to the center of the town with cobblestones set around in circles and patterns in its little square. On one side, was the white church, and on the other that small hotel—albergo, they called it—that the hotel clerk in Messina had recommended to her. And then they stopped outside the door, where all the men sat around on the walk, drinking wine and talking.

Dark, swarthy little men, they were—with brown, leathery faces and glittering eyes, and red neckties or scarves, and some of them with little earrings, like the old-time brigands must have worn. And all of them had rough, coarse clothes, except one, who was dressed, she thought, almost like an American. And they all sat perfectly still and watched her, in a kind of sinister silence, while she went in, looking as dignified as she could, with Pompom under one arm and Saladin in his cage under the other—and the driver coming after her with her hand-baggage.

But just after she got out of the carriage and was starting in, the one man who was better dressed than the rest sprang up and bowed very low, and she thought at first he was going to speak. But she squelched him with a glance, and walked on in—and he stood there with his hat over his heart in his right hand, and his left hand out, bowing to her like a picture on the theater-program. She wondered then who he was. He was so different from the rest. And as handsome as the villain in a movie, with a most wonderful white smile!

NOBODY else spoke or moved. They all sat staring with their glittering eyes, as if they'd never seen anything like her in their lives; and she went on with her Pom and her parrot, feel ing terribly conspicuous, until she got inside the doorway, and they spoke again—she thought she heard some one say something like, “Signorina Americana.” And all at once they started chattering like excited birds.

“I wonder what he'll say,” she said to Pompom, alluding to her father, after she had sent away the driver, and the woman in the hotel had gone down, and they were all alone in their room up stairs, “when he hears of this latest one!”

For she felt just a little bit shaky, now night was coming on, remembering all those still leathery faces, with their earrings and bright neck-scarves, and their rough clothes—like brigands, staring at her with their glittering eyes through the twilight. All strange and kind of sinister except that one man, who was so different! He was more polished—you could see that—and had more money. She thought probably he might be the wealthy man of the place—some local landowner or prince or noble, or whatever they have in such places.

“But what do we care,” she said to Pompom, talking more and more and a little louder now, “for all of them? After all we've seen together!”

For of course they'd traveled everywhere, and had just come across from New York together, all alone, to meet her father—and go down the Mediterranean with him.

Yet just the same she had the woman bring up her supper to her room, and ate there, so as not to have to go down among those brigands again. And she had her bring up two or three more candles, for it was a dark room, anyway, and terribly gloomy with just the two candles they had at first. She had a wonderfully good plain supper, with the new candles on the little rough table the woman brought up—and Pompom in her lap, and Saladin, the new parrot, hanging from a nail she had found in a beam overhead.

“Just like Robinson Crusoe in his cave!” she said to Pompom. For the room was terribly low and dark.

THEN the woman came and took away the things, smiling and gesturing, but not able to speak a word of English. In fact, she heard no English spoken anywhere—which made her feel good and isolated! And when the woman left her and went out, she bent over her again, and kissed her hand—for she was terribly effusive! And when she did that, it seemed for a minute as if she was looking at the American girl's rings. For Spinks Beaufort had wonderful rings—diamonds and some splendid pearls—everything that had been her mother's, and a lot more that her father had bought her for herself. She was crazy about rings.

“I don't suppose it's anything, to you!” she said to Pompom when the woman had gone and left them alone, in that low room with the big beams overhead, and the dark rough furniture, and those ghastly pictures there on the walls, in the candle-light! And the sound of the brigands chattering and singing and shouting underneath!

“I wonder if we were silly, tackling this?” she said to Pompom, looking around. For the room seemed more and more creepy to her, in a way—lonely and dark, with dark furniture and deep, deep windows in the stone walls, like the windows in a dungeon. And on the bare wall those terribly bright-colored pictures of pain and suffering, shining in the candle-light right opposite the foot of the bed. And the bed had a bright red spread on it, and there were red curtains in the windows.

“My, what a lot of red there is in this room!” she said, looking away from the picture of a torn and wounded heart. “But we don't care, do we, Pompom? They can't scare us—can they, after all the places we've been together?” she said to the Pom, hugging him. And he looked up a little quick and restless, for he didn't care, either, for those men talking and making all that noise underneath.

And then she got up and tried to talk to Saladin, the parrot. But he sat and sulked and wouldn't be sociable at all. He was no company whatever—not like Pompom—probably, she thought, because he couldn't talk English. So she gave up finally, and let him sulk and went over with Pompom, and stood at one side of the deep window over the street, behind the red curtain, and peered down at the brigands on the sidewalk around their little tables, playing cards and drinking—and talking, talking, talking! They chattered more than talked, really. They creaked and squealed and chattered, exactly like a flock of blackbirds.

Now and then they seemed to get loud and quarrelsome; and while she watched, two of them jumped up from a table and stood opposite each other, and chattered more shrilly. And she caught her breath, for she saw them both flash out great knives—and stand crouching. One was a little man and the other a taller one with a strange wide mouth, who looked as if he were always laughing.

And then quick as a flash the man that had bowed to her—this man who seemed so superior to all the rest—came over and spoke to them sharply, and they sat right down again—as if he were some person of consequence.

She could see them and him quite clearly. They were underneath some sort of a plain common kerosene lamp that shone down on them from a kind of iron bracket on the front of the house. She could see this leader, or whatever he was, very plainly—with his clothes so much better than the others, and his manner so assured and confident. She noticed that he paid no attention to the one man of the two he had separated, who seemed to be angry and muttering about his silencing them—the man with the strange mouth.

She wondered still more just what this good-looking one was, and whether he was really any kind of a noble or local potentate or anything. And as she watched him from behind the red curtain, she saw him go back to where he started from and begin to talk again. And now she saw to whom he was talking. It was the woman who had come up into her room—the woman of the hotel. She wondered then if they could be talking about, her—and maybe her rings—which she felt sure the woman had stared at when she was leaving. Now and then they seemed to look in her general direction. Then she was sure of it—she certainly saw them look directly up from below at the window, and the woman point; and she shrank back—for though she was behind the curtain and the candle-light was almost nothing, she didn't want them to catch her watching them. Besides, the Pom was getting a little nervous and shivery in the strange place.

“Nonsense, Pompom,” she said, talking as much to steady herself as him. “Nonsense! Even if they were talking about us, it wouldn't be anything wrong. He's got a nice, kind, aristocratic face. He wouldn't steal our rings—or anything like that! If anything happened, he'd be the first one who'd help us. I know it—just from his looks.”

And she went back then into the room, and looked all around under everything. For it seemed terribly spooky now, in the candle-light—all that red, and the dark furniture. And she went to the door and tried it. And the lock just barely caught, and that was all. She could see it with the candle.

“I don't like that!” she said out loud. “Anybody could give that just one push and come right in.”

But she couldn't say anything much—that would make things worse, if anything. If there was any danger—to tell them that you suspected them! Even if you could make them understand you by signs!

So finally she put two chairs against the door, and got ready and went to bed—wearing all her rings, of course. And the last thing she saw was that terrible bleeding heart when she blew out the last candle.

Then she climbed into bed, between those lovely coarse cool linen sheets, and lay there with Pompom under her left arm, seeing the dark curtains against the blue, blue sky outside, blow in with a little soft floppy noise, and back again—and smelling the night-smells from outside—anything but orange blossoms! And listening to those brigands at the tables underneath, chattering and singing and threatening to murder one another, probably!

“I wonder if we were crazy,” she whispered to the Pom, “this time! I wonder if there is any danger. I don't believe so, do you?” she said, getting sleepy in spite of herself, for she'd had quite an active day.

And she had scarcely said it before she gave a little sigh and was fast asleep—and the Pom asleep beside her.

IT was hardly a minute—or so it seemed—before she woke up, with a jump—with Pompom whimpering and licking her face. It wasn't quite dark, and it wasn't quite light. And there was this terrible, terrible groaning—like nothing she had ever heard. And then, just after that, and with it, the shrieks of women, a lot of women, down underneath her—all over! And she sat straight up in bed, staring, for she thought she must still be asleep!

She thought so still more now; for staring ahead, she saw the bare wall, where there was a crack in it, open and shut as if it were making faces at her. And then the picture of the red heart with the knife-wound swung around and turned and went down bang on the floor. And the willow cage with Saladin in it started swinging like a censer, with Saladin screaming. And the black sort of bureau started sliding out along the floor. And then she knew what that terrible groaning was. It was the house itself grinding and writhing and stretching.

Then all at once there were hurrying steps upon the stairs and a banging on the door, and some one cried:

“Fretta—fretta! Corri—corri!”

Illustration: “Stop! Stop!” she was screaming. “Or I'll kill you!” She prayed and—fired!

And she asked “What?” not yet quite sure she was not crazy. And the voice called back again—the voice of the fat woman of the hotel that she had seen the night before:

“Corri—corri! Per la Madonna! Terremuoto! Terremuoto!”

Spinks Beaufort just leaped to her feet. She had her negligee there all ready for use if anything happened in the night—the loveliest thing, ivory satin, with a great gold dragon with its mouth open, and a Nile green lining. She had got it at Atlantic City, where she was when her father had telegraphed her to get ready for the steamer-trip. And she slipped on those little red slippers she'd bought at Algiers when they touched there. And then she gathered up Pompom in one arm and Saladin in the other, and just airplaned down the stairs into the square.

For she knew now what it was they were calling—even if she didn't understand Italian. It was “Earthquake! Earthquake!” And she remembered reading of the terrible ones they'd had here, and how one almost destroyed the city of Messina, not so very long ago. And the driver had shown her what it had done, for that matter, coming out the day before.

The square was full of people when she got there—rushing around and calling out and shrieking “Madonna! Madonna!” and falling on their knees. They were all dressed, or nearly all, she saw, except her. For they get up at an outlandish hour there, in those country places—everybody.

And then all at once a second shock came, and back of her one building went down—a very old and rickety one, or so it looked, as it was falling. It didn't fall out, the way you'd expect, and topple over, but it went right down straight. And then where there had been a building, there was just a rough pile of stones, with white dust blowing up over it.

And at that, naturally, Spinks Beaufort came out a little farther into the square—as soon as she could walk straight. But the rest all hurried over to the other side of the place where the church was. And every new one that came running, fell forward on his knees—just naturally, like a sea-bird lighting on the water. And some of them were walking on their knees toward the church—not getting up at all. And all the women and a great many of the men were calling:

“Salve mi! Salve mi! Madonna mia!”

And before she knew it, hardly, a half-dozen men had plunged through the church door, which stood open, as it al ways did, and were coming out with a kind of platform on their shoulders with an image on it—a red and blue and ivory image with a gold crown on its head. And they started marching with it—the others getting up from their knees and following slowly, shouting and praying and crying.

“Did you ever see anything like that in your life?” said Spinks Beaufort to the Pom, for she stood there so fascinated that she forgot even to be afraid—forgot she was the only one who was standing and wasn't following, and praying. But then she looked around, and—no, there was one other, a man, who stood a little ahead of her, a young man who looked as if he were laughing at the others marching.

They were going, she saw now, in a certain direction. There was a priest at the head of the line, in a perfectly gorgeous gown; then came the red and blue image—the saint, she supposed it was, like those she'd read somewhere, they have in every town in Italy and Sicily and such places. And then, after it, came all the rest, crying and praying and shouting! All were going this one way, out from the open square, or the main side of it where she was, and in back of the chapel. And every man, woman and child was in it—except the one man, who stood there grinning, and herself.

She looked at him, and he at her, it seemed, at just the same time. And when he did, though he didn't stop laughing, a most terrible expression came into his face! Then he looked away.

She started forward then. She thought she'd go herself and join the procession—just as soon as she saw that face! But when she did, she saw that he moved too—edged over between her and the others, and she had to stop—pretend she wasn't going that way, after all. They were both pretending, she could see, with their eyes on each other sidewise.

“This wont do, Pompom!” she said under her breath. And she stood still, pretending indifference, thinking all she could, and as fast. For the procession across the square, she saw, would be around on the other side of the white chapel before long—and the backs of everybody left on their side of the square were turned toward them already. And everybody, the whole town, was there now. The rest of the place was just empty.

SO she thought the best thing to do would be to walk around him very deliberately toward the procession, as if she hadn't noticed him before. But when she did, after a quick look he walked directly ahead of her, where she'd have to go, and stood there grinning. She saw now who he was. It was the man with the strange smile on his face whom that other man, the handsome one who she thought might have been a nobleman, had stopped fighting the night before.

And now, looking closer, she saw a terrible thing about him. She saw it wasn't a smile at all that gave him his expression. It was just a scar—a horrible healed cut at the corner of his mouth.

She stopped still then—and started to call out to him: “You let me by or I'll scream!”

And then, of course, she didn't; for she saw at once how silly it would be, how things really were; and her heart stopped still. He couldn't understand English—she was certain of that. And as for screaming, what good would screaming in English do—when everybody in the place, all, were screaming and praying at the top of their own voices?

“Steady, Pompom. Steady!” she said, clutching him to her—both him and the parrot. For in addition to hearing nothing and seeing nothing but itself, the procession now was just about disappearing behind the white chapel—maybe going right around it, maybe not; she couldn't tell! She saw it would be useless to try and catch it.

“We've got to run—that's all, Pompom,” she said to herself and the dog. “We've got to keep on pretending we don't see him—and then dash away!”

The man was still quite a little way from her, with his face kind of turned forward—watching, she thought, as she was, to see when the procession would finally disappear.

So she did now the only thing she could think of. She walked along the edge of the square, humming to herself, as if not thinking about him at all, al though he kept out beyond her, edging along too—kind of stalking her. without pretending to—till they should be all alone! But her idea was that suddenly, when she could, she'd see some place she could dart into, and disappear. For she'd been quite a runner in school.

“It isn't true. It simply isn't true, Pompom!” she kept saying to herself and the dog to steady herself—watching for her chance. For the earthquake seemed to be over now—or had for some minutes. And she would rather take that chance, anyway, than this. And then suddenly her time came. She saw he was looking away a second—and she dashed around the corner into an alley.

IT was a canary-colored alley, a faint, pale, lovely color, like so many of the houses in the place. On one side there were only two houses—deserted. She could see that, from just looking at them. And on the other side was a kind of blank stone wall, with one or two small windows, high up—the back of the stables of the little hotel, she thought it must be. And at the farther end was a bright vermilion cart with two wheels. And then, looking beyond that, her heart stood still; for the alley ended up against a kind of little cliff on the hill the town was built against. She had thrown herself right into a trap!

She peered in at the first door of the two houses as she ran by, and saw that there was certainly nobody there. And then she darted in the second door, which was open too—and stood there perfectly still, in the empty place, listening for footsteps.

“If we ever get out of this alive, Pompom,” she said, whispering, and her heart beating a tattoo against him, “we'll reform. We'll never do anything wild again!”

And the Pom looked up and trembled against her, for he was scared stiff by the whole proceeding. And Saladin, the parrot, changed claws on his perch, for she had him under her other arm still, kind of crooked. So she straightened his cage up—and just then she heard steps running into the alley, and the man with the scar on the edge of his mouth went by, peering here and there—evidently not having seen her go in, and not quite sure whether she had run into the alley, or one of the houses on the square.

He hurried out to the end of the place, looked all over—and back again. And after a minute at the opening of the alley, he plunged into the door of the house next to hers. And that, of course, was the worst thing possible, for she knew the next move would be for him to come in there. She looked back into that dark smelly little black cave of a house behind her—and fled.

IT wouldn't do to run back by that door where he was—or she thought it wouldn't, anyway, for he might be com ing out any time. And it struck her if she could dart down to the end of the alley and hide herself anywhere, he wouldn't come back, for he'd looked there already. And just then she saw that blood-red cart with the high wheels again—and she gathered up her ivory negligee again and flew for it.

She was still hanging onto Pompom and the parrot. It had never occurred to her to drop them. In fact, she couldn't now, without giving herself away. But it was terribly hard to run, holding them and the skirt of her negligee at the same time. And just before she got to the red cart, her foot caught in the hem of the skirt, and she stumbled and almost fell.

She caught herself luckily before she went down, and she didn't drop either the Pom or the parrot, but something almost as dreadful happened. For one of her Morocco slippers came off, right almost in the middle of the alleyway. She couldn't stop for it. She had to rush on. And in a minute she'd whirled in back of the red cart and sat cowering behind the tipped-up body, listening—and this man rummaging through the houses for her.

“We're loot, Pompom! That's all. Just loot!” she whispered to the dog. For that was the only term she could think of.

If she could only hide there until he got out, or they got through their crazy panic and stopped marching around, she thought she could escape, for she was hidden by the body of the wagon. Only there, almost in front of it, she knew, was that red slipper. If he saw that, it was all over! She peered out, just a fraction of an inch from behind the big high wheel; and there it sat, right in the center of the cobbles. And just that minute the man with the scar on his mouth came out from the doorway and looked up and down the alley—and started to go out.

And then he turned once more, for a final look—and saw it!

He came rushing over then, as fast as he could run—and grabbed it up and looked at it, and looked around! And just then Saladin, the parrot, gave a squawk. She'd tipped him almost upside down in her excitement, and it made him mad.

And then Spinks Beaufort stepped out from behind her wagon.

“Go away from here,” she told the man as cool as she could. “Go away or I'll scream!”

And she thought while she said it: “How perfectly silly! Nobody can hear me!”

The rest were all out there still, of course, marching around, yelling. And nobody would notice her or understand what she called, if they did hear her. Her Pom was the only living thing, apparently, within uncounted miles, that had ever heard English.

BUT she started to scream just the same, when he came running at her, with her slipper in his hand—and that dreadful grin on his face that was made by a cut extending out from his mouth. And when he came, and she screamed, he called out something, and held out both his hands like claws—to show her he would strangle her if she kept on screaming. And then she stopped, and stared at him.

“What is it?” she said, her voice almost gone. “What do you want?” And looking down and seeing her bare left foot, she drew it back under her negligee.

He wasn't looking there, though, but at something else. She was still holding the dog and the cage pressed hard against her, and she thought he was looking at them.

“Questi—questi!” he said.

“What?” she said, looking down, for she didn't think he would want either one —the dog or the parrot. “Not this? Nor this?”

“No. No—no!” he said hurriedly, and pointed again, coming nearer.

And now she saw what he was after—her rings! She was almost relieved when she saw what it actually was. And she started putting her hands together to take them off.

THEY were wonderful rings. They must have been worth ten or fifteen thousand dollars, anyway. Some were her own, but mostly her mother's! She started to take them off for him; and the first one she put her fingers on was her mother's engagement ring—the one her father thought so much of.

And she just drew her hands apart involuntarily when she touched it.

“No,” she said suddenly, without thinking even. “No. I wont!”

And stood up, facing him.

He could understand the meaning, even if he couldn't understand the language; and he must have been in a hurry, for he didn't wait any longer. He grabbed her hand himself, and when he did, Pompom, like a little fury, snapped out and bit him.

It couldn't have been anything serious—though it brought the blood,—not much more dangerous than a mosquito-bite. But it surprised the man for the minute. He drew back his hand, and then he reached out again, mad, and made a grab for Pompom, wanting to wring his neck, probably. And Spinks Beaufort partly threw him, and he partly sprang away. And Saladin in his wicker cage fell on the cobbles—and rolled along and lay on his side screaming and trying to get up. And she stood there alone facing him—this man with the scarred mouth—shouting, “No—no—no!”—and stamping with her one red slipper on the cobbles.

She stood there in that deserted canary-colored alley, beside that blood-red cart, with the parrot squawking, and Pompom barking at the man's heels; and all the time she kept thinking, saying over and over to herself:

“Loot! Loot—just loot!”

And then suddenly the man flashed out something from his belt, and she saw it was a long knife—that same one, probably, he had pulled out the night before.

He grabbed her left hand where her mother's big ring was, and held it with his left hand, and brought up this huge knife in his right. She was starting to beat him with her right hand, but then she stopped, for that knife, you could see, was terribly sharp.

She stopped pounding, but she still clenched her left hand, not intending to let her rings go. And then he looked up at her and said something very low. She didn't understand the words—but she understood the motion he made, well enough. For he had brought that terribly fine edge of the knife up to her fingers, threatening to cut her.

Pom was snapping at his heels still, but the parrot had righted himself, and sat still for the minute, surprised and sulky. She could see all this like a picture—as if it didn't concern herself at all. But all the time she was saying over to herself, “Loot! Loot—just loot!” and she thought of things she'd read about, what men do to get women's rings—how they cut them off, in battlefields or sieges or things like that, if they have to get them in a hurry. And yet she just couldn't let him take them off. She couldn't have unclasped her hand now if she'd wanted to. Instead she let out a terrible scream in English:

“Help! Help!” And she thought right away: “How foolish—how perfectly idiotic, when nobody can hear me!”

And then she thought she was crazy. For it seemed as if she heard some one calling—up over her head somewhere, way off:

“Where? Where?”

He didn't hear it apparently—the man trying to get her rings. For he went right on threatening and starting to prick her fingers with the end of that awful knife.

But she answered just the same, thinking all the time she was probably crazy, hearing voices in the air.

“Here! Here!” she shrieked.

And when she did that, the man pressed a little harder with the edge of the knife, his eyes close up to hers, showing the white rings around them, threatening her. She got the warm smell of vile tobacco on his breath!

Just that minute a man dropped over the sort of low cliff of ledge above them at the end of the alley. They both turned, and the Pom scampered to one side. She looked, and there was that man of the night before—the one she thought might be a noble or something. She was saved—or thought she was, at first!

THE minute he struck the ground, however, she saw that something had happened. He had twisted his leg or something in that jump, and fallen. And when he started to get up again, she saw he was hurt. Then she saw, or thought she saw, he was unarmed—and that other man had a knife! It was in his hand, she saw, where it was held suspended near her hand, when he turned, surprised. And she was quicker than he was, probably, in seeing things. At any rate, suddenly—she had no idea why—she leaned down and bit the grinning man—sunk her teeth in the brown wrist that held the knife.

She didn't understand how or why she did it; she never did! She must have been just crazy—like a wild woman. All she knew was that the blood came, and he cursed or something, and she heard the knife drop on the cobbles. And quick as a flash she kicked it away with her foot with the red slipper on it.

And that was all; for now suddenly, with a yell, he jumped away from her and toward the other man who was still lying on the ground—and kicked. And she saw what he was doing. She saw the other man was pulling a pistol out of his pocket—was trying to! But he was too late. For the foot of the man with the gashed face hit his arm and kicked the pistol out his hand—and it went clattering on the alleyway cobblestones like the knife.

And now Spinks Beaufort saw the danger wasn't over, by any means. For the new man—that one who had come to help her—was clearly quite a little hurt. His leg was apparently twisted from his jump, and his right hand, that had held the pistol, was badly hurt too. But he was up and had grabbed the other man, nevertheless. They were struggling, rolling around the alley together, and the Pom dancing around them—and she herself, standing off, with the pistol she had caught up in her hand, wondering what she could do with it, whether she could hand it to the man who was fighting for her—but not being able to do a thing.

THEY were struggling, it looked now, both of them, in one direction—rolling over and over; and she could see, now it was too late, what they were after. It was that knife lying on the cobbles.

“What a fool!” she said to herself. “What a fool I was not to take it!”

But it was too late now. The man with the torn mouth had it. And though the other man was still fighting for it, he seemed to be getting the worst of it.

She danced around, crying, “Here. Here!” and trying to slip that pistol to him, and then seeing how foolish it was. For of course he couldn't let go for a minute of that hand of the other man with the knife. If he did, he was gone!

And all at once, as if something had wrenched and given way, her man went over on his back, and that beast with the scarred mouth sat over him with that knife up.

It was a second—the fraction of a wink. But she saw everything perfectly plain. There was just one thing for her to do. She must shoot—kill a man herself—or see one killed.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!” And she jumped forward and pushed the muzzle against the back of that man's head, where he sat astride of the other one, bringing his knife up.

She was excited—but not afraid. She saw everything, clear and distinct, like a very clear picture—the parrot trying to sit straight in the overturned cage, looking very serious and savage and mad; Pompom snarling and prancing and snapping around the two men, like a bloodthirsty microbe; and the grinning man's arm coming up with the knife—and the other man's strength going!

“Stop! Stop!” she was screaming. “Or I'll kill you!”

She thought he might stop, with that pistol-muzzle at the back of his head, and she wouldn't have to shoot; but he didn't. He was too excited, perhaps, or triumphant, seeing the other man was practically through. He just kind of rolled his head to avoid her and drew his hand way back with the knife. And she prayed and—fired!

HE rolled over, off the other man—her friend. And she sprang back—perfectly still. For she saw what she had done. She had killed a man!

The other man, that handsome one who had risked his life to save her, stumbled up onto his feet in a minute—and came toward her. But she didn't see him—for she had shut her eyes—tight, tight! And she was staggering. And the next thing she knew, she was holding onto him, crying:

“Oh—oh! I've killed a man. I've killed a man! I'm a murderess!”

“Nota quite. Nota quite. Mabbe,” he said.

And when he said it, she sprang back from him, her eyes wide open.

“You speak English!” she cried out. “You speak English.”

“Yes'm. I do. Yes'm,” he said.

And she started to step back and take hold of him, some way. For it was like a voice from heaven—like the miracle they were expecting from that red and blue and gold saint,—hearing English when she had thought there wasn't anyone for miles and miles who could speak to her.

“Wait. Joost a min',” he said, holding her from falling. “Look. See!”

And she looked down for the first time—forced herself to—to see what she had done—expecting to see him lying there, with a big hole in his head. But it wasn't there. There was blood, a little, in his hair, when he lay there first, face down. And now just as this man beside her who stood steadying her, said to look, the body lying there rolled; and her man, reaching out, started to push it with his foot, and then kicked it.

She gave a jump then away from him, for it seemed horrible to her. And she called out when he started to do it a second time. But then she stopped. For when he did this, the man on the cobblestones jumped up all at once like a rabbit—and ran and ran and ran out through the alleyway.

“Then I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him, after all!” she called, catching at the other man's coat again.

“No,” he said, trying to explain to her. “No. You only maka scratch on the outside. He turn his head maybe whena you shoot. So you only maka senseless.”

“That was it,” said Spinks Beaufort. “That was just it.”

And she saw now that his eyes were turned from her and were watching the man with the scarred mouth run wildly out of the end of the canary-colored alleyway. He ran in the funniest way, crooked, zigzagging back and forth—afraid of being shot at, evidently. And all at once the man with her burst into a laugh—half a laugh and half a cry of triumph.

“Run. Run! See'm run. How fun' he maka him look!”

And she laughed too—she couldn't help it—till the man disappeared around the last canary-colored corner.

NOW suddenly she remembered that they were alone together in that alley, and she thought what she had on, and how she must look, in that satin negligee. And she looked down and saw that red slipper over beside him where the man with the scar had dropped it. And she started to hop over to it, remembering her bare foot finally.

“No—no. Stop. Wait,” he called to her—and leaned down and picked up the red slipper, and handed it to her with a gesture like a prince—and then turned his back while she put it on her foot.

“We'd better go back, hadn't we?” she said to the man. For the noise of crying and calling was less in the square.

“I go—yes. I thinka so,” he said.

And now she gave a little cry—for she saw how terribly lame he was. She had forgotten all about that twist he had suffered when he jumped to save her.

“Oh, you're hurt,” she cried. “I'm so sorry. You're hurt!”

But he was terribly brave about it.

“Tha's noth'! Tha's noth',” he said. “Like what we alla got there in war.”

“Listen,” she said. “You do this: you lean on me. I'm terribly strong, really. I may not look so. But I am! And you can take the parrot, if you want. And we'll go together.”

FINALLY she got him to do it—made him. But she never saw a man in all her life so kind and so courteous and so considerate. Yet she was a little afraid all the time to ask him questions—about who he was, or anything. But finally she had to ask him—something!

“You speak English so well!” she said—though that wasn't quite true, either. “You speak English so perfectly—where did you learn it?”

“New York,” he said.

“New York!” cried Spinks Beaufort, stopping and staring. “Why, that's where I come from!”

“Yesa ma'am, I know. I see,” said the man. “You Newa York. Me also, one time—teel I coma here for Italia to fight the war.”

“New York!” she cried. “But where? What part?”

“My biz,” he said, “always down—waya down in cit'. By the beeg reech man, by the Walla Street.”

“Near Wall Street,” said Spinks Beaufort. “Why, my father is in Wall Street every day.”

And they stopped walking on the cobblestones, and faced one another again.

“Your fath',” said the rescuer of Spinks Beaufort. “What, then, is hisa name? What you calla him?”

“Beaufort,” she told him. “Ledyard Beaufort.”

“A beeg, beeg, talla man,” said the handsome man, gesturing with his left hand until he almost upset Saladin. “Beeg and tall?”

“Yes. Yes!” said Spinks Beaufort—just as excited as he was.

“I know heem. I know heem. Mr. Beaufort. I know heem. He come alla time in place where I work. There in biga build' by Wall Street. He coma alla time to the barba' shop, where I am,” said the man, waving Saladin again in his excitement.

“Oh!” said Spinks Beaufort, catching her breath—and then going on, at last, when she could control herself. For after all, he was just as nice as he could be!

“Oh, isn't that wonderful And where are you now?”

“Upa there,” he said, waving the parrot now toward the end of the alley, beyond the rocks. “I hava the vin'. I maka the grape. I buy the land with the mon' from New York. I coma down from there, when the earthaquek, he come to the town. And I heara you call.”

“Oh,” said Spinks Beaufort. “And you saved my life.”

“Oh, yes—why not? I sava you—eef I can!” he said with his nice white polite smile again. “But your fath'—is he here also, too?”

“Yes,” said Spinks Beaufort, looking at him—almost as excited as he was once more. “Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it wonderful? He'll be here in Messina tomorrow.”

“Then I taka you, I taka you back to heem, with my wag'. I goa with you,” said the man who had saved her—just as polite as ever—the same grand way of bowing, even on only one foot.

“Come on now, mees, please,” he said. “We go back now to the albergo.”

They turned the corner and crossed the square. Nobody paid any attention to them, for though the earthquake was all over and they were all making less noise, yet they were all standing and kneeling the other way—toward where the bearers were putting the red and blue and gold saint back into its chapel—until another earthquake or something else came, and scared them wild again.

“You like New York?” she said, to make conversation.

“I lika—yes,” said Mr. Tintoni. “Yet not so good as here.”

“I'm crazy over it,” said Miss Spinks Beaufort. And then suddenly she shuddered—and tried to cover it up.

“Aren't you, Pompom?” she said bending her head down.

But he just looked back and yawned. He was as sleepy as could be, after all that excitement.