"I would rather have it read from your own bright eyes, my pretty donzella," said I, with a gallant air. This made the eyes of the young rogue with the guitar flash fire; and on my attempting to take the hand of the girl, she tripped away from me with a demure air of rustic coquetry which made her look prettier still. Though not tall, she was finely formed: the contour of her head and profile was of classic beauty. Her eyes were darker than any I had ever looked on, and at times they became lustrous with lambent light; and her teeth, white and regular, were unsurpassed in brilliancy even by those of Bianca. But her face, her arms, and legs—the latter partially displayed by a scanty petticoat—were burned by the sun to a hue considerably darker than the natural olive tint of her race. Her hair was so black, that it seemed of a _blue_ tint, where the light struck upon it, and its luxuriant masses were confined by a golden arrow, with an unexpanded bulb; announcing that she was a maiden spotless and free: the _barb_ being the sign of betrothal or marriage. "Gentil signor, for a crown, I will write you a spell that will make all the women love you." "Benissimo, my girl!" said I, "if only one woman loves me truly"—— "Or seek you a love potion? or a charm against French bullets?" said a hideous hag, with fierce black eyes, a shrivelled skin, and the aspect of a Hecate. "Bah!" growled the old Zingaro; "away with you, Zilla—and you, too, good mother! The cavaliere has not come among us to have charms made, or fortunes read; but for a trusty guide, who for a handful of carlini will conduct him through any part of the woods between seas." "Right, master Zingaro!—a guide is just what I am in search of, to direct me on the Crotona road: at least, so far as we may go until dawn; when I may see to avoid these cursed rice-fields and quagmires, through which it is no joke to ride in the dark." "True, signor: you have had a very narrow escape. I remember that in the wet season, when these marshes become lakes, three of Regnier’s dragoons, while escorting the famous crook-back, Gaspare Truffi, to the gallows at Monteleone, were cajoled by his oily tongue, and led among the rice-fields yonder, as the shortest way. Via! ’t was the longest road they ever marched—for they are on it yet. Gaspare escaped; but the troopers and their horses sunk for ever in the shifting morass. You may thank those blessed stars that shone so kindly on you: you had perished but for them. Seat yourself on the turf, signor: the Zingari feast when other men sleep; and if you will condescend to partake of our meal"——I bowed assent, and seated myself beside his daughter.