“Of course I was,” answered Clare. “I said just what I thought.”
They were walking together along the high road which leads from Amalfi towards Salerno. It is certainly one of the most beautiful roads in Europe, and in the whole world. The chain of rocky heights dashes with wild abruptness2 from its five thousand feet straight to the dark-blue sea, bristling3 with sharp needles and spikes4 of stone, rough with a chaos5 of brown boulders6, cracked from peak to foot with deep torn gorges8. In each gorge7 nestles a garden of orange and lemons and pomegranates, and out of the stones there blows a perfume of southern blossom through all the month of May. The sea lies dark and clear below, ever tideless, often still as a woodland pool; then, sometimes, it rises suddenly in deep-toned wrath9, smiting10 the face of the cliff, booming through the low-mouthed caves, curling its great green curls and combing them out to frothing ringlets along the strips of beach, winding11 itself about the rock of Conca in a heavily gleaming sheet and whirling its wraith12 of foam13 to heaven, the very ghost of storm.
And in the face of those rough rocks, high above the water, is hewn a way that leads round the mountain’s base, many miles along it, over the sharp-jutting spurs, and in between the boulders and the needles, down into the gardens of the gorges and past the dark towers whence watchmen once descried14 the Saracen’s ill-boding sail and sent up their warning beacon15 of smoke by day and fire by night.
It is the most beautiful road in the world, in its infinite variety, in the grandeur16 above and the breadth below, and the marvellous rich sweetness of the deep gardens—passing as it does out of wilderness17 into splendour, out of splendour into wealth of colour and light and odour, and again out to the rugged18 strength of the loneliness beyond.
Clare and Johnstone had exchanged idle phrases for a while, until they had passed Atrani and the turn where the new way leads up to Ravello, and were fairly out on the road. They were both glad to be out together and walking, for Clare had grown stronger, and was weary of always sitting on the terrace, and Johnstone was tired of taking long walks alone, merely for the sake of being hungry afterwards, and of late had given it up altogether. Mrs. Bowring herself was glad to be alone for once, and made little or no objection, and so the two had started in the early afternoon.
Johnstone’s remark had been premeditated, for his curiosity had been aroused on the preceding day by Clare’s words and manner. But after she had given him her brief answer she said no more, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.
“Yes,” said Johnstone at last, as though he had been reflecting, “you generally say what you think. I didn’t doubt it at the time. But you seem rather hard on the men. Women are all angels, of course—”
“Not at all!” interrupted Clare. “Some of us are quite the contrary.”
“Well, it’s a generally accepted thing, you know. That’s what I mean. But it isn’t generally accepted that men are. If you take men into consideration at all, you must make some allowances.”
“I don’t see why. You are much stronger than we are. You all think that you have much more pride. You always say that you have a sense of honour which we can’t understand. I should think that with all those advantages you would be much too proud to insist upon our making allowances for you.”
“That’s rather keen, you know,” answered Brook, with a laugh. “All the same, it’s a woman’s occupation to be good, and a man has a lot of other things to do besides. That’s the plain English of it. When a woman isn’t good she falls. When a man is bad, he doesn’t—it’s his nature.”
“Oh—if you begin by saying that all men are bad! That’s an odd way out of it.”
“Not at all. Good men and bad women are the exceptions, that’s all—in the way you mean goodness and badness.”
“And how do you think I mean goodness and badness? It seems to me that you are taking a great deal for granted, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brook, growing vague on a sudden. “Those are rather hard things to talk about.”
“I like to talk about them. How do you think I understand those two words?”
“I don’t know,” repeated Johnstone, still more vaguely20. “I suppose your theory is that men and women are exactly equal, and that a man shouldn’t do what a woman ought not to do—and all that, you know. I don’t exactly know how to put it.”
“I don’t see why what is wrong for a woman should be right for a man,” said Clare. “The law doesn’t make any difference, does it? A man goes to prison for stealing or forging, and so does a woman. I don’t see why society should make any distinction about other things. If there were a law against flirting21, it would send the men to prison just like the women, wouldn’t it?”
“What an awful idea!” laughed Brook.
“Yes, but in theory—”
“Oh, in theory it’s all right. But in practice we men are not wrapped in cotton and tied up with pink ribbons from the day we are born to the day we are married. I—I don’t exactly know how to explain what I mean, but that’s the general idea. Among poor people—I believe one mustn’t say the lower classes any more—well, with them it isn’t quite the same. The women don’t get so much care and looking after, when they are young, you know—that sort of thing. The consequence is, that there’s much more equality between men and women. I believe the women are worse, and the men are better—it’s my opinion, at all events. I dare say it isn’t worth much. It’s only what I see at home, you know.”
“Yes, lots of them drink, men and women. And as for flirting—they don’t call it flirting, but in their way I dare say it’s very much the same thing. Only, in our part of the country, a man who flirts23, if you call it so, gets just as bad a name as a woman. You see, they have all had about the same bringing up. But with us it’s quite different. A girl is brought up in a cage, like a turtle dove, with nothing to do except to be good, while a boy is sent to a public school when he is eleven or twelve, which is exactly the same as sending him to hell, except that he has the certainty of getting away.”
“But boys don’t learn to flirt at Eton,” observed the young girl.
“Well—no,” answered Johnstone. “But they learn everything else, except Latin and Greek, and they go to a private tutor to learn those things before they go to the university.”
“You mean that they learn to drink and gamble, and all that?” asked Clare.
“Oh—more or less—a little of everything that does no good—and then you expect us afterwards to be the same as you are, who have been brought up by your mothers at home. It isn’t fair, you know.”
“No,” answered Clare, yielding. “It isn’t fair. That strikes me as the best argument you have used yet. But it doesn’t make it right, for all that. And why shouldn’t men be brought up to be good, just as women are?”
Brook laughed.
“That’s quite another matter. Only a paternal24 government could do that—or a maternal25 government. We haven’t got either, so we have to do the best we can. I only state the fact, and you are obliged to admit it. I can’t go back to the reason. The fact remains26. In certain ways, at a certain age, all men as a rule are bad, and all women, on the whole, are good. Most of you know it, and you judge us accordingly and make allowances. But you yourself don’t seem inclined to be merciful. Perhaps you’ll be less hard-hearted when you are older.”
“I’m not hard-hearted!” exclaimed Clare, indignantly. “I’m only just. And I shall always be the same, I’m sure.”
“If I were a Frenchman,” said Brook, “I should be polite, and say that I hoped so. As I’m not, and as it would be rude to say that I didn’t believe it, I’ll say nothing. Only to be what you call just, isn’t the way to be liked, you know.”
“I don’t want to be liked,” Clare answered, rather sharply. “I hate what are called popular people! ”
“So do I. They are generally awful bores, don’t you know? They want to keep the thing up and be liked all the time.”
“Well—if one likes people at all, one ought to like them all the time,” objected Clare, with unnecessary contrariety.
“That was the original point,” observed Brook. “That was your objection to the man in the book—that he loved first one sister and then the other. Poor chap! The first one loved him, and the second one prayed for him! He had no luck!”
“A man who will do that sort of thing is past praying for!” retorted the young girl. “It seems to me that when a man makes a woman believe that he loves her, the best thing he can do is to be faithful to her afterwards.”
“Yes—but supposing that he is quite sure that he can’t make her happy—”
“Then he had no right to make love to her at all.”
“But he didn’t know it at first. He didn’t find out until he had known her a long time.”
“And while he was trying to find out, she fell in love with him,” continued Brook. “That was unlucky, but it wasn’t his fault, you know —”
“Oh yes, it was—in that book at least. He asked her to marry him before he had half made up his mind. Really, Mr. Johnstone,” she continued, almost losing her temper, “you defend the man almost as though you were defending yourself!”
“That’s rather a hard thing to say to a man, isn’t it?”
Johnstone was young enough to be annoyed, though he was amused.
“Then why do you defend the man?” asked Clare, standing28 still at a turn of the road and facing him.
“I won’t, if we are going to quarrel about a ridiculous book,” he answered, looking at her. “My opinion’s not worth enough for that.”
“If you have an opinion at all, it’s worth fighting for.”
“I don’t want to fight, and I won’t fight with you,” he answered, beginning to laugh.
“With me or with any one else—”
“No—not with you,” he said with sudden emphasis.
“Why not with me?”
“Because I like you very much,” he answered boldly, and they stood looking at each other in the middle of the road.
Clare had started in surprise, and the colour rose slowly to her face, but she would not take her eyes from his. For the first time it seemed to her that he had no power over her.
“I’m sorry,” she answered. “For I don’t like you.”
“Are you in earnest?” He could not help laughing.
“Yes.” There was no mistaking her tone.
Johnstone’s face changed, and for the first time in their acquaintance he was the one to turn his eyes away.
“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly. “Shall we turn back?” he asked after a moment’s pause.
“No, I want to walk,” answered Clare.
She turned from him, and began to walk on in silence. For some time neither spoke29. Johnstone was puzzled, surprised, and a little hurt, but he attributed what she had said to his own roughness in telling her that he liked her, though he could not see that he had done anything so very terrible. He had spoken spontaneously, too, without the least thought of producing an impression, or of beginning to make love to her. Perhaps he owed her an apology. If she thought so, he did, and it could do no harm to try.
“I’m very sorry, if I have offended you just now,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t offend me,” answered Clare. “It isn’t rude to say that one likes a person. ”
“Oh—I beg your pardon—I thought perhaps—”
He hesitated, surprised by her very unexpected answer. He could not imagine what she wanted.
“Because I said that I didn’t like you?” she asked.
“Well—yes.”
“Then it was I who offended you,” answered the young girl. “I didn’t mean to, either. Only, when you said that you liked me, I thought you were in earnest, you know, and so I wanted to be quite honest, because I thought it was fairer. You see, if I had let you think that I liked you, you might have thought we were going to drift into being friends, and that’s impossible, you know—because I never did like you, and I never shall. But that needn’t prevent our walking together, and talking, and all that. At least, I don’t mean that it should. That’s the reason why I won’t turn back just yet—”
“But how in the world can you enjoy walking and talking with a man you don’t like?” asked Johnstone, who was completely at sea, and began to think that he must be dreaming.
“Well—you are awfully30 good company, you know, and I can’t always be sitting with my mother on the terrace, though we love each other dearly. ”
“You are the most extraordinary person!” exclaimed Johnstone, in genuine bewilderment. “And of course your mother dislikes me too, doesn’t she?”
“Not at all,” answered Clare. “You asked me that before, and I told you the truth. Since then, she likes you better and better. She is always saying how nice you are.”
“Then I had better always talk to her,” suggested Brook, feeling for a clue.
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that at all!” cried the young girl, laughing.
“And yet you don’t like me. This is like twenty questions. You must have some very particular reason for it,” he added thoughtfully. “I suppose I must have done some awful thing without knowing it. I wish you would tell me. Won’t you, please? Then I’ll go away.”
“No,” Clare answered. “I won’t tell you. But I have a reason. I’m not capricious. I don’t take violent dislikes to people for nothing. Let it alone. We can talk very pleasantly about other things. Since you are good enough to like me, it might be amusing to tell me why. If you have any good reason, you know, you won’t stop liking31 me just because I don’t like you, will you?”
She glanced sideways at him as she spoke, and he was watching her and trying to understand her, for the revelation of her dislike had come upon him very suddenly. She was on the right as they walked, and he saw her against the light sky, above the line of the low parapet. Perhaps the light behind her dazzled him; at all events, he had a strange impression for a moment. She seemed to have the better of him, and to be stronger and more determined32 than he. She seemed taller than she was, too, for she was on the higher part of the road, in the middle of it. For an instant he felt precisely33 what she so often felt with him, that she had power over him. But he did not resent the sensation as she did, though it was quite as new to him.
Nevertheless, he did not answer her, for she had spoken only half in earnest, and he himself was not just then inclined to joke for the mere19 sake of joking. He looked down at the road under his feet, and he knew all at once that Clare attracted him much more than he had imagined. The sidelong glance she had bestowed34 upon him had fascination35 in it. There was an odd charm about her girlish contrariety and in her frank avowal36 that she did not like him. Her dislike roused him. He did not choose to be disliked by her, especially for some absurd trifle in his behaviour, which he had not even noticed when he had made the mistake, whatever it might be.
He walked along in silence, and he was aware of her light tread and the soft sound of her serge skirt as she moved. He wished her to like him, and wished that he knew what to do to change her mind. But that would not be easy, since he did not know the cause of her dislike. Presently she spoke again, and more gravely.
“I should not have said that. I’m sorry. But of course you knew that I wasn’t in earnest.”
“I don’t know why you should not have said it,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, you are quite right. I don’t like you any the less because you don’t like me. Liking isn’t a bargain with cash on delivery. I think I like you all the more for being so honest. Do you mind?”
“Not in the least. It’s a very good reason.” Clare smiled, and then suddenly looked grave again, wondering whether it would not be really honest to tell him then and there that she had overheard his last interview with Lady Fan.
But she reflected that it could only make him feel uncomfortable.
“And another reason why I like you is because you are combative37,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not, you know. One always admires the qualities one hasn’t oneself.”
“And you are not combative? You don’t like to be in the opposition38? ”
“Not a bit! I’m not fond of fighting. I systematically39 avoid a row.”
“I shouldn’t have thought that,” said Clare, looking at him again. “Do you know? I think most people would take you for a soldier.”
“Do I look as though I would seek the bubble reputation at the cannon’s mouth?” Brook laughed. “Am I full of strange oaths?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous, you know!” exclaimed Clare. “I mean, you look as though you would fight.”
“I never would if I could help it. And so far I have managed ‘to help it’ very well. I’m naturally mild, I think. You are not, you know. I don’t mean to be rude, but I think you are pugnacious—‘combative’ is prettier.”
“My father was a soldier,” said the girl, with some pride.
“And mine is a brewer41. There’s a lot of inheritable difference between handling gunpowder42 and brewing43 mild ale. Like father, like son. I shall brew40 mild ale too. If you could have charged at Balaclava, you would. By the way, it isn’t the beer that you object to? Please tell me. I shouldn’t mind at all, and I’d much rather know that it was only that.”
“How absurd!” cried Clare with scorn. “As though it made any difference!”
“Well—what is it, then?” asked Brook with sudden impatience44. “You have no right to hate me without telling me why.”
“No right?” The young girl turned on him half fiercely, and then laughed. “You haven’t a standing order from Heaven to be liked by the whole human race, you know!”
“And if I had, you would be the solitary45 exception, I suppose,” suggested Johnstone with a rather discontented smile.
“Perhaps.”
“Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind? Because, if it were anything in reason, I’d do it.”
“It’s rather a pity that you should put in the condition of its being in reason,” answered Clare, as her lip curled. “But there isn’t anything. You may just as well give it up at once.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s a waste of time, I assure you. Besides, it’s mere vanity. It’s only because everybody likes you—so you think that I should too.”
“Between us, we are getting at my character at last,” observed Brook with some asperity46. “You’ve discovered my vanity, now. By-and-by we shall find out some more good qualities.”
“Perhaps. Each one will be a step in our acquaintance, you know. Steps may lead down, as well as up. We are walking down hill on this road just now, and it’s steep. Look at that unfortunate mule47 dragging that cart up hill towards us! That’s like trying to be friends, against odds48. I wish the man would not beat the beast like that, though! What brutes49 these people are!”
Her dark blue eyes fixed50 themselves keenly on the sight, and the pupils grew wide and angry. The cart was a hundred yards away, coming up the road, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and drawn51 by one wretched mule. The huge carter was sprawling52 on the front sacks, yelling a tuneless chant at the top of his voice. He was a black-haired man, with a hideous53 mouth, and his face was red with wine. As he yelled his song he flogged his miserable54 beast with a heavy whip, accenting his howls with cruel blows. Clare grew pale with anger as she came nearer and saw it all more distinctly. The mule’s knees bent55 nearly double at every violent step, its wide eyes were bright red all round, its white tongue hung out, and it gasped56 for breath. The road was stony57, too, besides being steep, for it had been lately mended and not rolled.
“Brute!” exclaimed Clare, in a low voice, and her face grew paler.
Johnstone said nothing, and his face did not change as they advanced.
“Don’t you see?” cried the young girl. “Can’t you do anything? Can’t you stop him?”
“Oh yes. I think I can do that,” answered Brook indifferently. “It is rather rough on the mule.”
At that moment the unfortunate animal stumbled, struggled to recover itself as the lash61 descended62 pitilessly upon its thin flanks, and then fell headlong and tumbled upon its side. The heavy cart pulled back, half turning, so that the shafts64 were dragged sideways across the mule, whose weight prevented the load from rolling down hill. The carrier stopped singing and swore, beating the beast with all his might, as it lay still gasping66 for breath.
Brook and Clare were coming nearer.
“That’s not very intelligent of the fellow,” observed Johnstone indifferently. “He had much better get down.”
“Oh, stop it, stop it!” cried the young girl, suffering acutely for the helpless creature.
But the man had apparently68 recognised the impossibility of producing any impression unless he descended from his perch69. He threw the whip to the ground and slid off the sacks. He stood looking at the mule for a moment, and then kicked it in the back with all his might. Then, just as Johnstone and Clare came up, he went round to the back of the cart, walking unsteadily, for he was evidently drunk. The two stopped by the parapet and looked on.
“He’s going to unload,” said Johnstone. “That’s sensible, at all events.”
The sacks, as usual in Italy, were bound to the cart by cords, which were fast in front, but which wound upon a heavy spindle at the back. The spindle had three holes in it, in which staves were thrust as levers, to turn it and hold the ropes taut70. Two of the staves were tightly pressed against the load, while the third stood nearly upright in its hole.
The man took the third stave, a bar of elm four feet long and as thick as a man’s wrist, and came round to the mule again on the side away from Clare and Johnstone. He lifted the weapon high in air, and almost before they realised what horror he was perpetrating he had struck three or four tremendous blows upon the creature’s back, making as many bleeding wounds. The mule kicked and shivered violently, and its eyes were almost starting from its head.
Johnstone came up first, caught the stave in air as it was about to descend63 again, wrenched71 it out of the man’s hands, and hurled72 it over Clare’s head, across the parapet and into the sea. The man fell back a step, and his face grew purple with rage. He roared out a volley of horrible oaths, in a dialect perfectly incomprehensible even to Clare, who knew Italian well.
“You needn’t yell like that, my good man,” said Johnstone, smiling at him.
The man was big and strong, and drunk. He clenched73 his fists, and made for his adversary74, head down, in the futile75 Italian fashion. The Englishman stepped aside, landed a left-handed blow behind his ear, and followed it up with a tremendous kick, which sent the fellow upon his face in the ditch under the rocks. Clare looked on, and her eyes brightened singularly, for she had fighting blood in her veins76. The man seemed stunned77, and lay still where he had fallen. Johnstone turned to the fallen mule, which lay bleeding and gasping under the shafts, and he began to unbuckle the harness.
“Could you put a big stone behind the wheel?” he asked, as Clare tried to help him.
He knew that the cart must roll back if it were not blocked, for he had noticed how it stood. Clare looked about for a stone, picked one up by the roadside, and went to the back of the cart, while Johnstone patted the mule’s head, and busied himself with the buckles78 of the harness, bending low as he did so. Clare also bent down, trying to force the stone under the wheel, and did not notice that the carter was sitting up by the roadside, feeling for something in his pocket.
An instant later he was on his feet. When Clare stood up, he was stepping softly up behind Johnstone. As he moved, she saw that he had an open clasp-knife in his right hand. Johnstone was still bending down unconscious of his danger. The young girl was light on her feet and quick, and not cowardly. The man was before her, halfway79 between her and Brook. She sprang with all her might, threw her arms round the drunken man’s neck from behind, and dragged him backward. He struck wildly behind him with the knife, and roared out curses.
“Quick!” cried Clare, in her high, clear voice. “He’s got a knife! Quick!”
But Johnstone had heard their steps, and was already upon him from before, while the young girl’s arms tightened80 round his neck from behind. The fellow struck about him wildly with his blade, staggering backwards81 as Clare dragged upon him.
“Let go, or you’ll fall!” Brook shouted to her.
As he spoke, dodging82 the knife, he struck the man twice in the face, left and right, in an earnest, business-like way. Clare caught herself by the wheel of the cart as she sprang aside, almost falling under the man’s weight. A moment later, Brook was kneeling on his chest, having the knife in his hand and holding it near the carter’s throat.
“Lie still!” he said rather quietly, in English. “Give me the halter, please!” he said to Clare, without looking up. “It’s hanging to the shaft65 there in a coil.”
Kneeling on the man’s chest—to tell the truth, he was badly stunned, though not unconscious—Brook took two half-hitches with the halter round one wrist, passed the line under his neck as he lay, and hauled on it till the arm came under his side, then hitched83 the other wrist, passed the line back, hauled on it, and finally took two turns round the throat. Clare watched the operation, very pale and breathing hard.
“He’s drunk,” observed Johnstone. “Otherwise I wouldn’t tie him up, you know. Now, if you move,” he said in English to his prisoner, “you’ll strangle yourself.”
Thereupon he rose, forced the fellow to roll over, and hitched the fall of the line round both wrists again, and made it fast, so that the man lay, with his head drawn back by his own hands, which he could not move without tightening84 the rope round his neck.
“He’s frightened now,” said Brook. “Let’s get the poor mule out of that.”
In a few minutes he got the wretched beast free. It was ready enough to rise as soon as it felt that it could do so, and it struggled to its feet, badly hurt by the beating and bleeding in many places, but not seriously injured. The carter watched them as he lay on the road, half strangled, and cursed them in a choking voice.
“And now, what in the world are we going to do with them?” asked Brook, rubbing the mule’s nose. “It’s a pretty bad case,” he continued, thoughtfully. “The mule can’t draw the load, the carter can’t be allowed to beat the mule, and we can’t afford to let the carter have his head. What the dickens are we to do?”
He laughed a little. Then he suddenly looked hard at Clare, as though remembering something.
“It was awfully plucky85 of you to jump on him in that way,” he said. “Just at the right moment, too, by Jove! That devil would have got at me if you hadn’t stopped him. Awfully plucky, upon my word! And I’m tremendously obliged, Miss Bowring, indeed I am!”
“It’s nothing to be grateful for, it seems to me,” Clare answered. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done but to sit down and wait until somebody comes. It’s a lonely road, of course, and we may wait a long time.”
“I say,” exclaimed Johnstone, “you’ve torn your frock rather badly! Look at it!”
She drew her skirt round with her hand. There were long, clean rents in the skirt, on her right side.
“It was his knife,” she said, thoughtfully surveying the damage. “He kept trying to get at me with it. I’m sorry, for I haven’t another serge skirt with me.”
Then she felt herself blushing, and turned away.
“I’ll just pin it up,” she said, and she disappeared behind the cart rather precipitately86.
“By Jove! You have pretty good nerves!” observed Johnstone, more to himself than to her. “Shut up!” he cried to the carter, who was swearing again. “Stop that noise, will you?”
He made a step angrily towards the man, for the sight of the slit87 frock had roused him again, when he thought what the knife might have done. The fellow was silent instantly, and lay quite still, for he knew that he should strangle himself if he moved.
“I’ll have you in prison before night,” continued Johnstone, speaking English to him. “Oh yes! the carabinieri will come, and you will go to galera—do you understand that?”
He had picked up the words somewhere. The man began to moan and pray.
“Stop that noise!” cried Brook, with slow emphasis.
He was not far wrong in saying that the carabineers would come. They patrol the roads day and night, in pairs, as they patrol every high road and every mountain path in Italy, all the year round. And just then, far up the road down which Johnstone and Clare had come, two of them appeared in sight, recognisable a mile away by their snow-white crossbelts and gleaming accoutrements. There are twelve or fourteen thousand of them in the country, trained soldiers and picked men, by all odds the finest corps88 in the army. Until lately no man could serve in the carabineers who could not show documentary evidence that neither he nor his father nor his mother had ever been in prison even for the smallest offence. They are feared and respected, and it is they who have so greatly reduced brigandage89 throughout the country.
Clare came back to Johnstone’s side, having done what she could to pin the rents together.
“It’s all right now,” she cried. “Here come the carabineers. They will take the man and his cart to the next village. Let me talk to them—I can speak Italian, you know.”
She was pale again, and very quiet. She had noticed that her hands trembled violently when she was pinning her frock, though they had been steady enough when they had gone round the man’s throat.
When the patrol men came up, she stepped forward and explained what had happened, clearly and briefly90. There was the bleeding mule, Johnstone standing before it and rubbing its dusty nose; there was the knife; there was the man. With a modest gesture she showed them where her frock had been cut to shreds91. Johnstone made remarks in English, reflecting upon the Italian character, which she did not think fit to translate.
The carabineers were silent fellows with big moustaches—the one very dark, the other as fair as a Swede—they were clean, strong, sober men, with frank eyes, and they said very little. They asked the strangers’ names, and Johnstone, at Clare’s request, wrote her name on his card, and the address in Amalfi. One of them knew the carter for a bad character.
“We will take care of him and his cart,” said the dark man, who was the superior. “The signori may go in quiet.”
They untied92 the rope that bound the man. He rose trembling, and stood on his feet, for he knew that he was in their power. But they showed no intention of putting him in handcuffs.
“Turn the cart round!” said the dark man.
They helped the carter to do it, and blocked it with stones.
“Put in the mule!” was the next order, and the carabineers held up the shafts while the man obeyed.
Then both saluted93 Johnstone and Clare, and shouldered their short carbines, which had stood against the parapet.
“Forward!” said the dark man, quietly.
The carter took the mule by the head and started it gently enough. The creature understood, and was glad to go down hill; the wheels creaked, the cart moved, and the party went off, one of the carabineers marching on either side.
Clare drew a long breath as she stood looking after them for a moment.
“Let us go home,” she said at last, and turned up the road.
For some minutes they walked on in silence.
“I think you probably saved my life at the risk of yours, Miss Bowring,” said Johnstone, at last, looking up. “Thank you very much.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the young girl, and she tried to laugh.
“But you were telling me that you were not combative—that you always avoided a fight, you know, and that you were so mild, and all that. For a very mild man, Mr. Johnstone, who hates fighting, you are a good ‘man of your hands,’ as they say in the Morte d’Arthur.”
“Oh, I don’t call that a fight!” answered Johnstone, contemptuously. “Why, my collar isn’t even crumpled94. As for my hands, if I could find a spring I would wash them, after touching95 that fellow.”
“That’s the advantage of wearing gloves,” observed Clare, looking at her own.
They were both very young, and though they knew that they had been in great danger they affected96 perfect indifference97 about it to each other, after the manner of true Britons. But each admired the other, and Brook was suddenly conscious that he had never known a woman whom, in some ways, he thought so admirable as Clare Bowring, but both felt a singular constraint98 as they walked homeward.
“Do you know?” Clare began, when they were near Amalfi, “I think we had better say nothing about it to my mother—that is, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means,” answered Brook. “I’m sure I don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, and my mother is very nervous—you know—about my going off to walk without her. Oh, not about you—with anybody. You see, I’d been very ill before I came here.”
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1
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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4
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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5
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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7
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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8
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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9
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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10
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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11
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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12
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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13
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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14
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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16
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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18
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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29
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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40
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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42
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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44
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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48
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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49
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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50
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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53
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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57
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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61
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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62
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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64
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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67
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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68
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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70
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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72
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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73
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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75
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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76
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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77
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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80
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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81
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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82
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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83
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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84
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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85
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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87
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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88
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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89
brigandage
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| n.抢劫；盗窃；土匪；强盗 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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92
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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93
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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94
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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