time forth she never left her
shutter. To make herself the more sure she gave orders to Donna Matura
to close all the shutters alike. Captain Mosca, on one of his returns to
the Borgo, looked up at the blind green eyes of his former haven and,
chuckling, rubbed his hands. This artless outlet to his feelings was
interpreted for what it was worth behind the shutter.

By six of the evening Mosca, seeing Olimpia's house still keep a dead
face, threw off the last remnant of his cares and bade himself be
merry. "My handsome friend is either asleep or on a journey, it
appears," said he to himself. "That, on the whole, is well. I cannot
think she would be pleased at the advent of little Bellaroba riding
pillion to me. Still less would the honour about to be paid the young
lady afford her any gratification. Least of all would her observations
on the subject tend to clear the air. No, no. Everything is for the
best, it seems, and the world still a tolerable place. Now for my little
wood-bird." He paid and dismissed his work-people, then rode off himself
to fetch Bellaroba. And Olimpia, from her shutter, watched him go.

There was no trouble on the child's score. The Countess was away; a
feigned message from her was enough. Had she been at home and in a good
humour, she would have accorded a real one, no doubt; so the deceit was
quite harmless. Bellaroba demurred a little that she could not in person
warn Angioletto, but the Captain begged her to have no fears. Time
pressed; it was evident the Countess's service was urgent. Yet the
Captain swore by all that he held sacred--to be sure no great things,
but Bellaroba could not know that--to deliver her message to the lad
with his own hand. "For," said he, and confirmed it with an oath, "if I
don't see him this very night it will be a pity:" words which were
afterwards thought to have been prophetic by the curious in such
matters. So Bellaroba entrusted him with her scrawl to "My love
Angilotto," and the Captain chewed and swallowed it when she was not
looking. Then he lifted her to his horse and rode with her into the
green-sheltered Borgo, just as it was settling into twilight. And
Olimpia, from her shutter, saw them come.

I spare you the picture of her fury: it was not seemly, for all it was
very white and still. The sight of a handsome girl shuddering in a cold
stare under the grip of an evil spirit can never be pleasant; and where
the experienced Donna Matura shrank from what