Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
But I am sure it is
nothing of moment."
"We'd better get back to Sorrento," said Uncle John, abruptly.
"Not on my account, I beg of you," returned Ferralti, quickly. "We are
half way to Amalfi now, and you may as well go on. For my part, if the
wrist troubles me, I will see a surgeon at Amalfi--that is, if you
permit me to accompany you."
He said this with a defferent bow and a glance of inquiry.
Uncle John could not well refuse. The young fellow might be a sham
count, but the manliness and courage he had displayed in their grave
emergency surely entitled him to their grateful consideration.
"You are quite welcome to join us," said Uncle John.
The driver had by now repaired a broken strap and found his equippage
otherwise uninjured.
The horses stood meekly quiescent, as if they had never known a moment's
fear in their lives. So the girls and their uncle climbed into the
vehicle again and the driver mounted the box and cracked his whip with
his usual vigor.
The wind had subsided as suddenly as it had arisen, and as they passed
through Positano--which is four hundred feet high, the houses all up and
down the side of a cliff like swallows' nests--big flakes of snow were
gently falling around them.
Count Ferralti rode at the side of the carriage but did not attempt much
conversation. His lips were tight set and the girls, slyly observing his
face, were sure his wrist was hurting him much more than he cared to
acknowledge.
Circling around the cliff beyond Positano the sun greeted them, shining
from out a blue sky, and they wondered what had become of the bad
weather they had so lately experienced.
From now on, past Prajano and into Amalfi, the day was brilliant and the
temperature delightful. It was full noon by the time they alighted at
the little gate-house of the ancient Cappuccini-Convento, now a hotel
much favored by the tourist. Count Ferralti promised to join them later
and rode on to the town to find a surgeon to look after his injured
hand, while the others slowly mounted the long inclines leading in a
zigzag fashion up to the old monastery, which was founded in the year
1212.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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