Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
See! I who am a stranger and not even his
countryman, even I weep for the poor young man, and long to comfort him.
Do you, his friend, refuse him aid because you have fear of the wild
mountains and a poor peasant boy?"
Tears really stood in the beautiful brown eyes. They rolled down his
cheeks, as with both hands he pressed that of Uncle John and urged him
gently forward.
"Oh, well; lead on, Tato. I'll see the other side of your tunnel,
anyhow. But if you play me tricks, my lad--"
He paused, for a wonderful vision had opened before him. Coming through
the short passage hewn in the rocks the American stood upon a ledge
facing a most beautiful valley, that was hemmed in by precipitous cliffs
on every side. From these stern barriers of the outside world the ground
sloped gradually toward the center, where a pretty brook flowed, its
waters sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight as it tumbled over its
rocky bed. Groves of oranges and of olive, lemon and almond trees
occupied much of the vale, and on a higher point at the right, its back
to the wall of rock that towered behind it, stood a substantial yet
picturesque mansion of stone, with several outbuildings scattered on
either side.
The valley seemed, indeed, a toy kingdom sequestered from the great
outside world, yet so rich and productive within itself that it was
independent of all else.
Uncle John gazed with amazement. Who could have guessed this delightful
spot was hidden safe within the heart of the bleak, bare mountain
surrounding it? But suddenly he bethought himself.
"What place is this, Tato?" he asked; "and where is our friend
Ferralti, who needs me?"
There was no reply.
He turned around to find the boy had disappeared. Moreover, the passage
had disappeared. Only a wall of rock was behind him, and although his
eyes anxiously searched the rifts and cracks of its rough surface, no
indication of the opening through which he had passed could be
discovered.
CHAPTER XVII
THE HIDDEN VALLEY
Uncle John's first inspiration was to sit down upon a stone to think.
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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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