Uncle John saved his remaining breath for the climb.  He could ask questions afterward.

The path was in a crevasse where the rocks seemed once to have split.  It was narrow and steep, and before long ended in a cul de sac.  The little man thought they had reached their destination, then; but without hesitation the boy climbed over a boulder and dropped into another path on the opposite side, holding out a hand to assist the American.

Uncle John laughed at the necessity, but promptly slid his stout body over the boulder and then paused to mop his brow.

“Much farther, Tato?”

“Just a step, signore.”

“It is lucky you found Ferralti, or he might have died in these wilds without a soul knowing he was here.”

“That is true, signore.”

“Well, is this the path?”

“Yes, signore.  Follow me, please.”

The cliffs were precipitous on both sides of them.  It was another crevasse, but not a long one.  Presently the child came to a halt because the way ended and they could proceed no farther.  He leaned against the rock and in a high-pitched, sweet voice sang part of a Sicilian ditty, neither starting the verse nor ending it, but merely trilling out a fragment.

Uncle John regarded him wonderingly; and then, with a sudden suspicion, he demanded: 

“You are not playing me false, Tato?”

“I, signore?” smiling frankly into the man’s eyes; “you need never fear Tato, signore.  To be your friend, and Signor Ferralti’s friend, makes me very proud.”

The rock he leaned against fell inward, noiselessly, and disclosed a passage.  It was short, for there was light at the other end.

The strange child darted in at once.

“This way, signore.  He is here!”

Uncle John drew back.  He had forgotten until now that these mountains are dangerous.  And something strange in the present proceedings, the loneliness of the place and the elfish character of his guide, suddenly warned him to be cautious.

“See here, my lad,” he called:  “I’ll go no farther.”

Instantly Tato was at his side again, grasping the man’s hand in his tiny brown one and searching his face with pleading eyes.

“Ah, signore, you will not fail your friend, when he is so near you and in such great trouble?  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—­”