Its hood was up, and its horse was in an attitude of thought.  They climbed in, and the minute they were in—­Mrs. Wilkins, indeed, could hardly be called in—­the horse awoke with a start from its reverie and immediately began going home rapidly; without Beppo; without the suit-cases.

Beppo darted after him, making the night ring with his shouts, and caught the hanging reins just in time.  He explained proudly, and as it seemed to him with perfect clearness, that the horse always did that, being a fine animal full of corn and blood, and cared for by him, Beppo, as if he were his own son, and the ladies must be alarmed—­he had noticed they were clutching each other; but clear, and loud, and profuse of words though he was, they only looked at him blankly.

He went on talking, however, while he piled the suit-cases up round them, sure that sooner or later they must understand him, especially as he was careful to talk very loud and illustrate everything he said with the simplest elucidatory gestures, but they both continued only to look at him.  They both, he noticed sympathetically, had white faces, fatigued faces, and they both had big eyes, fatigued eyes.  They were beautiful ladies, he though, and their eyes, looking at him over the tops of the suit-cases watching his every movement—­there were no trunks, only numbers of suit-cases—­were like the eyes of the Mother of God.  The only thing the ladies said, and they repeated it at regular intervals, even after they had started, gently prodding him as he sat on his box to call his attention to it, was, “San Salvatore?”

And each time he answered vociferously, encouragingly, “Si, si—­ San Salvatore.”

“We don’t know of course if he’s taking us there,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot at last in a low voice, after they had been driving as it seemed to them a long while, and had got off the paving-stones of the sleep-shrouded town and were out on a winding road with what they could just see was a low wall on their left beyond which was a great black emptiness and the sound of the sea.  On their right was something close and steep and high and black—­rocks, they whispered to each other; huge rocks.

They felt very uncomfortable.  It was so late.  It was so dark.  The road was so lonely.  Suppose a wheel came off.  Suppose they met Fascisti, or the opposite of Fascisti.  How sorry they were now that they had not slept at Genoa and come on the next morning in daylight.

“But that would have been the first of April,” said Mrs. Wilkins, in a low voice.

“It is that now,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot beneath her breath.

“So it is,” murmured Mrs. Wilkins.

They were silent.

Beppo turned round on his box—­a disquieting habit already noticed, for surely his horse ought to be carefully watched—­and again addressed them with what he was convinced was lucidity—­no patois, and the clearest explanatory movements.