"I propose to pluck a bouquet for you, a virginal bouquet, from the flowers in my garden," he answered, with a smile, in which, if there was a suspicion of mockery, it was directed at himself alone. To Mila this attention seemed much less surprising than it seemed to the Piccinino. He plucked with care white roses, myrtle, and orange blossoms; he picked the thorns from the roses; he selected the finest flowers; and with more taste and skill than he would have given himself credit for, he made a superb bouquet for his amiable guest. "Ah!" he said as he presented it to her, "we must not forget the cyclamen. There must be some among this grass. No, no, Mila, do not look; I want to pick them myself, so that the princess may enjoy inhaling the perfume of my bouquet. For you must tell her that it comes from me, and that it was the only attention which I ventured to offer you, after a tête-à-tête of two hours in my house." "Then you do not forbid me to tell Princess Agatha that I have been here?" "You must tell her, Mila. You must tell her everything. But her alone, do you understand? Swear it on your salvation, for you believe in that, do you not?" "Why, do not you believe in it, signor?" "I believe that I have earned the right to go to Paradise to-day, if I should die at once; for my heart is as pure as a little child's since you have been with me." "But, suppose the princess asks me who you are, monsignor, and whom I am talking about--how shall I describe you so that she may know?" "You will tell her what I wish you also to know, Mila. But perhaps there will be times hereafter when my face and my name will no longer be in accord. Then you must hold your peace, and, at need, pretend that you never saw me, for with a word you could cause my death." "God forbid!" cried Mila, effusively. "Ah! monsignor, rely on my prudence and my discretion as if my life were bound to yours!" "Very well; say to the princess that it was Carmelo Tomabene who rescued you from Abbé Ninfo, and who kissed your hand as respectfully as he would kiss her own." "It is for me to kiss your hand, monsignor," replied the guileless child, putting the brigand's hand to her lips, firmly persuaded that it was at least a king's son who treated her with such condescending courtesy; "for you are deceiving me," she continued. "Carmelo Tomabene is a _villano_, and this house is no more yours than his name is. You might live in a palace, if you chose, but you disguise yourself for political reasons which I ought not to know, and do not wish to. I have an idea that you will be King of Sicily some day. Ah! how I would like to be a man and fight for your cause! for you will bring about the happiness of your people, I am sure of it!"