Could it be that death waited on their reunion? He had only jested at the superstition on a former occasion: somehow now he did not feel inclined to jest at it. This pretty basil thing, which they had elected and consecrated for the symbol of their happiness! Its flowering was to be the sign; and when was it to flower? Not yet, nor remotely, if it was to be judged by these others; not even so soon as they, if Aquaviva had prophesied aright. And yet they had reached a crisis, whose solution, it seemed, must be a matter of days--of moments. The duke, if not arrived at Colorno already, was hourly expected. Why did she not come? And, at that very instant, aware of a stealthy step behind him, he turned and saw Bissy. There was something in the boy’s face, a suppressed emotion, a sort of furtive excitement, which startled and arrested him at once. Bissy carried a basket and a spud, with the latter of which, having deposited the former at a tree foot, he began to prod in an aimless way about the roots, obviously to give colour to some supposed business. Conscious of an odd unsteadiness in his feet, as if they had lost the sensation of contact with the ground, Tiretta approached the worker, and stood looking down. “What is that for, Bissy?” he said. “To let in light and air?” The boy did not answer for a moment; then suddenly ceased digging, and stood up, leaning on his spud like a perspiring goblin. Once or twice he gulped; and at last brought up resolution. “To let in light and air--the signor has said it,” he answered. Tiretta studied him, a strange smile on his lips. “There is some mystery here,” he said low. “What is it, Bissy?” “It is of your own making, signore. It has never been of mine. If you wish me still to respect it, I shall do so in all dutifulness, understanding that there is no reason in the world why il Signor Talé should be interested in the arrival this moment of someone in the gardens.” “Of someone! Of whom, Bissy?” His voice did not seem to himself to belong to him. “Of the owner of a little shoe I once pulled out of the mud, signore.” “Bissy!” He was as pale as death; he stood as if suddenly stricken mute. The boy, all honour to his elfin intelligence, showed his instant appreciation of the situation. He did not consider right or wrong; it was enough that these two, his dearest patrons, wished to meet--for whatever reason was their own business. “Go through the grove, signore,” he whispered, “to the little sward by the river. I will fetch her to come and look at my oranges. She has that _cagna_ Fanchette with her, as sour and sullen as a duchess. But she shall not spy; I will see to that. Go, signore!”