He was good at that, and at marrying handsome women. He had married four of them, and as each died took a still handsomer one, and every time a kinswoman, for he said there was nothing like Finazzer blood. When he had caught the eagle he was already fifty-four, and had hung for nine hours at the end of four church ladders over a most frightful precipice, but directly afterwards, he had gone courting his handsomest wife. She was a young cousin’s widow, and had never looked at any one but him, was almost glad when her husband was killed—by a runaway ox, that was—though she had a little girl by him and was far gone with child at the time. And so her father and mother were half-sister and half-brother, her mother a year older than her father, and that was why they were so dear to each other, because they were of one blood and had been brought up together. When her father rode away to Spittal or over into the Tyrol to buy cattle, even if it were only for a night or two, her mother could hardly let him go; she cried every single time, clung to him, kissed his mouth and hands, and could not stop waving, and looking after him, and calling blessings on him. And that was how she was going to live with her husband—she would not have it any other way.

Meanwhile they had crossed the yard. Beside the gate, inside the wall, there was a wooden bench; she drew him towards it and told him to sit down beside her. Andreas marvelled how the girl told him everything, as frankly as if he had been her brother. Meanwhile evening had drawn in—on the one hand, the clouds had sunk down over the mountains, on the other there was a piercing clearness and purity, with a few golden clouds scattered over the sky, the whole sky in movement, the puddle with the quacking ducks a spray of fire and gold, the ivy on the chapel wall like emerald; a tit or robin glided out of the green gloom, and wheeled with a sweet sound in the shimmering air. Romana’s lips were loveliest of all: they were shining, transparent crimson, and her eager, innocent talk flowed between them like fiery air carrying her soul, while from the brown eyes came a flash at every word.

Suddenly, over in the house, Andreas saw her mother standing in an embrasure in the upper storey and looking down at them. He pointed her out to Romana. Through the leaded window the woman’s face looked sad and stern; he thought they ought to get up and go into the house, her mother might need her, or she did not like them sitting there together. Romana merely gave a frank and happy nod, drew him by the hand. He was to stay where he was. The mother nodded back and went away. Andreas could hardly understand this; the only attitude he knew towards parents and elders was constraint and fear: he could not imagine that the mother could find such freedom anything but displeasing, even though she might not say so. He did not sit down again, but said he must have a look at the horse.

When they entered the stable the young maid was crouching by the fire, her hair hanging in wisps over her flushed face, the servant more on than beside her. She seemed to be brewing something in an iron pot.

“Shall I go for more saltpetre, Mr Sergeant?” asked the slut, tittering as if it were some great secret. When the ruffian saw Andreas with Romana behind him he scrambled into a more decent posture. Andreas ordered him to take the portmanteau, which was still lying in the straw, up to his room, and the valise, too.

“All in good time,” said Gotthilff. “I’ve got to get finished here first. That’s a draught to make a sick horse sound and a sound dog sick.” As he said this he turned to Andreas with a most insolent look.

“What’s the matter with the horse?” said Andreas, and stepped towards the stall, but he halted before the second step because he realised that he knew nothing about it, and the bay looked the picture of misery.

“What should be the matter? Tomorrow it will be all right. Then off we go,” replied the fellow, and turned back to the fire.

Andreas took the portmanteau, pretending he had forgotten his order to the servant. He pondered whether he was pretending to himself, to the fellow, or to Romana. She followed him upstairs. He left the door open behind him, threw the portmanteau down; the girl came in carrying the valise, and laid it down.

“That’s my grandmother’s bed. She bore her children in it. Look how beautifully it is painted, but my mother and father’s bed is much grander, and still bigger. It has St James and St Stephen painted at the head, and lovely wreaths of flowers at the foot.