Thus it came about that my visit to Pianura, having begun under the roof
of a Bishop, ended in a monastery of Barnabites--nor have I any cause to
complain of the hospitality of either of my hosts...
***
Odo, charmed by the vivacity with which this artless narrative was
related, pressed Miranda to continue the history of her adventures. The
actress laughingly protested that she must first refresh herself with
one of the ices he had so handsomely provided; and meanwhile she begged
the Count to favour them with a song.
This gentleman, who seemed glad of any pretext for detaching himself
from his elderly flame, rescued Mirandolina's lute from the inquisitive
fingering of the monkey, and striking a few melancholy chords, sang the
following words, which he said he had learned from a peasant of the
Abruzzi:--
Flower of the thyme!
She draws me as your fragrance draws the bees,
She draws me as the cold moon draws the seas,
And summer winter-time.
Flower of the broom!
Like you she blossoms over dark abysses,
And close to ruin bloom her sweetest kisses,
And on the brink of doom.
Flower of the rue!
She wore you on her breast when first we met.
I begged your blossom and I wear it yet--
Flower of regret!
The song ended, the prima amorosa, overcome by what she visibly deemed
an appeal to her feelings, declared with some agitation that the hour
was late and she must withdraw. Miranda wished the actress an
affectionate goodnight and asked the Count to light her to her room,
which was on the farther side of the gallery surrounding the courtyard
of the inn.
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