A little wine-garden lay at the back of the court through which she passed as the old man continued breaking out into questions and exclamations to which she returned not a word. At the end of the middle arbor-walk lay an unpretentious summer house; the shutters were closed, and on the inside over the glass door hung down a heavy curtain. A few steps from the pavilion, the landlord told Fenice to wait--and he went alone to the door, which opened at his knock. Fenice then saw the curtain thrust aside and a pair of eyes look out at her. Then the old man came back to her and said that the gentlemen would speak with her. As Fenice entered the pavilion a man who had been sitting at the table with his back to the door rose and shot a quick, piercing glance at her. Two others remained seated on their chairs. On the table she saw flasks of wine and glasses. “The signor, the lawyer, is not coming, as he promised?” said the men before whom she stood. “Who are you, and what have you brought as evidence of your mission?” “I am a girl from Treppi, Fenice Cattaneo, sir. Evidence? I have none, other than that I am telling the truth.” “Why does the signor, the lawyer, not come? We thought he was a man of honor.” “He is none the less honorable because he has suffered a violent fall from the cliffs and has been wounded in the head and in the leg, so that he has lost consciousness.” The questioner exchanged glances with the other men, and then continued: “You tell the truth, to be sure, Fenice Cattaneo, because you know how to lie so badly. If he has lost consciousness, how could he send you here to announce it to us?” “Speech came back to him for a moment. Then he said that he was expected at the Fortuna; that it should be made known there what had happened to him.” A dry laugh was audible from one of the other men. “You see,” said the speaker, “these gentlemen here put no great faith in your tale. Truly, it is easier to play the poet than the man of honor.” “If you mean, signor, that out of cowardice Signor Filippo does not come, it is an abominable lie, which may Heaven put down to your account,” she said firmly, and looked at each of the men in turn. “You are warm, little one,” mocked the man. “Are you, perhaps, the very good friend of the gentleman, the lawyer, heh?” “No, the Madonna is witness!” said she, in her richest voice. The men whispered together, and she heard one of them say: “The Aerie,[2] too, is in Tuscany. You do not really believe in this trick, do you?” The third interrupted him: “He lies no more in Treppi than--” “Come and see for yourself,” Fenice broke into their whispering. “But you shall not carry weapons, if I am to guide you.” “Little fool,” said the first speaker. “Think you that we will risk our lives for such a trim little creature as you are?” “No, but for him; that I know.” “Have you any other special conditions to impose, Fenice Cattaneo?” “Yes, that a surgeon accompanies us. Is there one among you, Signori?”