The graceful brown-eyed boy who showed us the house seemed also to belong to one of Titian’s pictures.  As we were going away, the Deacon, for lack of copper, rewarded him with a little silver piece, a half-lira, in value about ten cents.  A celestial rapture of surprise spread over the child’s face, and I know not what blessings he invoked upon us.  He called his companions to rejoice with him, and we left them clapping their hands and dancing.

Driving after one has dined has always a peculiar charm.  The motion seems pleasanter, the landscape finer than in the morning hours.  The road from Cadore ran on a high level, through sloping pastures, white villages, and bits of larch forest.  In its narrow bed, far below, the river Boite roared as gently as Bottom’s lion.  The afternoon sunlight touched the snow-capped pinnacle of Antelao and the massive pink wall of Sorapis on the right; on the left, across the valley, Monte Pelmo’s vast head and the wild crests of La Rochetta and Formin rose dark against the glowing sky.  The peasants lifted their hats as we passed, and gave us a pleasant evening greeting.  And so, almost without knowing it, we slipped out of Italy into Austria, and drew up before a bare, square stone building with the double black eagle, like a strange fowl split for broiling, staring at us from the wall, and an inscription to the effect that this was the Royal and Imperial Austrian Custom-house.

The officer saluted us so politely that we felt quite sorry that his duty required him to disturb our luggage.  “The law obliged him to open one trunk; courtesy forbade him to open more.”  It was quickly done; and, without having to make any contribution to the income of His Royal and Imperial Majesty, Francis Joseph, we rolled on our way, through the hamlets of Acqua Bona and Zuel, into the Ampezzan metropolis of Cortina, at sundown.

The modest inn called “The Star of Gold” stood facing the public square, just below the church, and the landlady stood facing us in the doorway, with an enthusiastic welcome—­altogether a most friendly and entertaining landlady, whose one desire in life seemed to be that we should never regret having chosen her house instead of “The White Cross,” or “The Black Eagle.”

“O ja!” she had our telegram received; and would we look at the rooms?  Outlooking on the piazza, with a balcony from which we could observe the Festa of to-morrow.  She hoped they would please us.  “Only come in; accommodate yourselves.”

It was all as she promised; three little bedrooms, and a little salon opening on a little balcony; queer old oil-paintings and framed embroideries and tiles hanging on the walls; spotless curtains, and board floors so white that it would have been a shame to eat off them without spreading a cloth to keep them from being soiled.

“These are the rooms of the Baron Rothschild when he comes here always in the summer—­with nine horses and nine servants—­the Baron Rothschild of Vienna.”