The Piccinino recovered his self-control as he looked at Mila. She had ingenuously arrayed herself in her Sunday garb to appear before her protector. Beneath her purple-velvet waist could be seen a second waist of a pale blue, embroidered and laced with excellent taste. A light net of gold thread confined her beautiful hair, in accordance with the fashion of the province, and to protect her face and her costume from the sun's scorching heat, she had enveloped herself in the _mantellina_, a thin veil of ample proportions, which covers the head and the whole body, when it is skilfully arranged and worn with grace. The Piccinino's sturdy mule, bearing a flat saddle of velvet trimmed with gilt nails, upon which a woman could easily ride sidewise, was panting and restive, as if proud to have borne and to have saved from all danger so lovely a rider. It was easy to see, from his foam-flecked sides, that little Mila had not spared him, or that she had bravely trusted to his zeal. It had been a dangerous ride, however: ridges of lava to cross, torrents to ford, precipices to skirt. The mule had taken the shortest path; he had climbed and leaped like a goat. Mila, seeing how strong and adroit he was, could not, despite her anxiety, avoid that intense and mysterious pleasure which women find in danger. She was proud of having felt physical courage spring to life within her with moral courage; and while the Piccinino admired the brilliancy of her eyes, and of her cheeks flushed by the exercise, she, thinking only of the merits of the white mule, turned and kissed him on the nose, saying: "You are worthy to carry the pope!" The brigand could not help smiling, and he forgot his anger. "Dear child," he said, "I am very glad that my good Bianca pleases you, and now I think that she would be worthy to eat from a golden manger, like the charger of a Roman emperor. But come quickly; I don't wish anyone to see you come in here." Mila docilely quickened her pace, and when the brigand had led her across his garden, after securely locking the gate, she allowed him to escort her into his house, whose neatness and coolness delighted her. "Is this your own house, pray, my lord?" she asked him. "No," he replied, "we are in Carmelo Tomabene's house, as I told you; but he is my debtor and my friend, and I have a room under his roof to which I sometimes retire when I need rest and solitude." He led her through the house, which was arranged and furnished in rustic fashion, but with an orderly, substantial, homelike appearance which the dwellings of rich peasants seldom display. At the end of the ventilating corridor, which ran from end to end of the upper floor, he opened a double door, the inner one being bound with iron, and ushered Mila into the truncated tower which he had incorporated into his house, so to speak, and where he had fitted up a dainty and mysterious boudoir.