suppose we'd better turn. I heard
all you said. And what had this wicked foreigner done?"

"He stole a nun out of a holy convent, _excellenz'_," said Rafaello in
a low voice.

I felt my heart jump.

"Near here?" I asked, as carelessly as I could.

"Oh, no, far away--I do not know. Nobody knows. It was only 'Cina and
his sister came from here. Mother of God, does the _signore_ think any
woman born hereabouts would have blood enough for that? Look you,
_signore_, she climbed down a tree and went with him in the night! A
professed nun! Oh, no doubt she is burning now, that one! For no woman
need take the veil, that is plain, but once taken, one is as good as
married to God himself, and then to take a man after! Oh, no. She is
certainly burning," concluded Rafaello with simple conviction.

"But I thought you said she was alive and made baskets," I said,
persistently stupid.

"No, no, the _signore_ misunderstands. That is 'Cina, who went with
her when they sailed away, being sent for by her brother. The wicked
one died, of course, and 'Cina came back with all the money. She
nearly died, herself, on the great ship. She ate nothing--not a bite
nor a scrap--for four days, she was so sick."

"He was an Englishman, I suppose?"

"No. From the _signore's_ country. Not, of course, that they are all
like that," Rafaello added politely, "but the truth must be told, he
was."

Now it was that my studies in Italian temperament came to my
assistance quite as strongly as my knowledge of the rough fisher
_patois_. The Italian must not be questioned nor know that anything of
interest or importance hangs on his answer. Even as the Oriental he
must be handled guilefully, and it was with a guileful yawn that I
dismissed the subject.

"It takes an Italian to believe that wild story, Rafaello," I said.
"I'm afraid your old 'Cina was teasing Lippo. It all sounds fishy to
me. Are we nearly in? I feel cold."

"Indeed no, _signore_, it is the truth. (We shall be in in eight
minutes by the _signore's_ watch.) 'Cina will never again speak to an
Englishman or--or one from the _signore's_ country. It is a vow. She
would die first. Lippo got a chance for her to stand at her spinning
for a crazy Englishman to paint in a picture--good money for it,
too!--and she spat in his face. Perhaps the _signore_ will believe
that?"

Again I yawned.

"Those stories mean nothing," I said, quivering with impatience. "They
are but as old legends without