She made no other reply than: "Come in quickly." No sooner had she secured the gate than the Piccinino made his appearance, and never was there a more disappointed face than Abbé Ninfo's. "Excuse me, monsignor," said the Piccinino, assuming an air of simplicity which surprised his companion; "I learned from my cousin Mila that you wished to see my poor garden, and I determined to admit you myself. Excuse me, it is only a peasant's garden, but the fruit trees are so old and so fine that people come from all directions to see them. Unluckily, I have an engagement, and I must go away in five minutes; but my cousin has promised to do the honors of the house, and I will retire, with your lordship's permission, as soon as I have offered you some wine and fruit." "Do not put yourself out, my good man!" replied the abbé, reassured by this speech. "Go about your business, and do not stand on ceremony. Go, go at once, I say, I do not propose to incommode you." "I will go as soon as I can see you at table. Lord God! you will die of the heat. Our roads are so rough! Come to the house; I will pour the first glass for you, and then I will go, as your lordship kindly permits me to do so." "My cousin will not go away until you are in the house," said Mila, in obedience to a meaning glance from the Piccinino. The abbé, seeing that he could not get rid of his obsequious host except by complying with his wish, passed through the arbor without an opportunity to address a word or a glance to Mila; for the Piccinino, still playing the part of a respectful peasant and zealous host, walked between them. The abbé was ushered into a cool, dark room, where a collation was served. But, as they entered, the Piccinino said in Mila's ear: "Let me fill your glass, but do not so much as smell it." A topaz-hued muscatel glistened in a large decanter which stood in a terra-cotta vessel filled with cold water. The abbé, who was somewhat disturbed by the peasant's presence, emptied at a single draught, without hesitation, the glass that was offered him. "Now," he said, "off with you at once, my boy! I should never forgive myself for having caused you to break your engagement." "Come with me, Mila," said the Piccinino. "You must lock the gate after me, for, if it should be left open, even for a moment, the children would come in and steal my peaches." Mila did not wait to be asked twice to hurry after the Piccinino; but he went no farther than the door of the room, and when he had closed it behind him, he put his finger on his lips, and, applying his eye to the keyhole, remained absolutely motionless. After two or three minutes he rose, saying aloud: "It is all over!" And he threw the door wide open. Mila saw the abbé lying on the floor, with a purple face, and breathing heavily. "Oh! my God!" she cried, "have you poisoned him, monsignor?" "No, indeed," replied Carmelo; "for we need a few words from him later. He is only asleep, the dear man, but very sound asleep!"