While the merchant stood by, offering words meant to comfort, but which added to his anguish, he replaced the marble in the box and nailed the lid before rousing Sebastiano from his _siesta_ in the cart. “It all comes of keeping the saints too long,” grumbled the carrier, as he helped lift Juno and the Peacock back into the cart. “Never did your uncle Daniello have any thrown on his hands--not he. Ah, there was a man of affairs!” The donkey tugged at the chain traces, moved the wheels a spoke or two, then stopped and looked around at the driver, wagging his grizzled ears in mute but eloquent disapproval of hauling a load skyward. But after duly weighing the matter, assisted by several clean-cut hints from a rawhide lash, he set off at his own crablike pace. The first turning of the highway attained, Armando paused and gazed on the city below, his heart aflood with bitterness. Far to the westward the sun, in variant crimson tones, lay hidden under the sea, like the last, loftiest dome of some sinking Atlantis. In every white hamlet of the slopes the Angelus was ringing. Night birds from Africa wheeled around the towering snares set for them by the owners of the olive terraces and villas, whose yellow walls in long stretches bordered the steep route. With his little group of living and inanimate companions Armando trudged along, his head bowed, silent as the marble in the cart. The gloaming quiet was unbroken, save for the gluck of the wheels and the distant chant of the belfries. They were yet a long way from the outermost cot of Cardinali when a resounding shout brought the donkey to a standstill and startled Sebastiano into a “_Per Bacco_!” It was the voice of Bertino. He was rounding a curve in the road, brandishing a piece of folded paper, and clattering toward them as fast as he could in his heavy wooden shoes. His radiant face proclaimed that something had happened to fill him with gladness. A few paces behind came Marianna, but in her eyes there was no token of joy. She had beheld the loaded cart. “Long live my uncle!” cried Bertino, grasping Armando’s hand. “The letter has come, and I’m off for America. Think of it, Armando _mio_, I, Bertino Manconi, going to America! It is no longer a dream. I am to go--go, do you understand? The money is here, and nothing can stop me. But come, you do not seem happy to hear of my great good fortune. I know, dear friend, you are sorry to lose me. Bah! one can not live in the mountains all his life, and perhaps you too will be there some day--some day when your Juno is sold. To-night all my friends shall drink a glass of _spumante_ to my voyage--yes, the real _spumante_ of Asti. At the Inn of the Fat Calf will I say _addio_, for I set sail to-morrow. Tell me, now, do you not count me a lucky devil?” “You are lucky,” said Armando sadly. “I wish I could go. My own country does not want me.”