“Vaali!” he said, in his throat. Then across the table “Hé, Gigi—Viale! Le Petit Chemin! Comment? Me prends-tu? L’allée—”
There came a great burst of laughter from Louis.
“It is good, it is good!” he cried. “Oh Madame! Viale, it is Italian for the little way, the alley. That is too rich.”
Max went off into a high and ribald laugh.
“L’allée italienne!” he said, and shouted with laughter.
“Alley or avenue, what does it matter,” cried Madame in French, “so long as it is a good journey.”
Here Geoffrey at last saw the joke. With a strange determined flourish he filled his glass, cocking up his elbow.
“A toi, Cic’—et bon voyage!” he said, and then he tilted up his chin and swallowed in great throatfuls.
“Certainly! Certainly!” cried Madame. “To thy good journey, my Ciccio, for thou art not a great traveller—”
“Na, pour ça, y’a plus d’une voie,” said Geoffrey.
During this passage in French Alvina sat with very bright eyes looking from one to another, and not understanding. But she knew it was something improper, on her account. Her eyes had a bright, slightly-bewildered look as she turned from one face to another. Ciccio had let go her hand, and was wiping his lips with his fingers. He too was a little self-conscious.
“Assez de cette éternelle voix italienne,” said Madame. “Courage, courage au chemin d’Angleterre.”
“Assez de cette éternelle voix rauque,” said Ciccio, looking round. Madame suddenly pulled herself together.
“They will not have my name. They will call you Allay!” she said to Alvina. “Is it good? Will it do?”
“Quite,” said Alvina.
And she could not understand why Gigi, and then the others after him, went off into a shout of laughter. She kept looking round with bright, puzzled eyes. Her face was slightly flushed and tender looking, she looked naive, young.
“Then you will become one of the tribe of Natcha-Kee-Tawara, of the name Allaye? Yes?”
“Yes,” said Alvina.
“And obey the strict rules of the tribe. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen.” Madame primmed and preened herself like a black pigeon, and darted glances out of her black eyes.
“We are one tribe, one nation—say it.”
“We are one tribe, one nation,” repeated Alvina.
“Say all,” cried Madame.
“We are one tribe, one nation—” they shouted, with varying accent.
“Good!” said Madame. “And no nation do we know but the nation of the Hirondelles—”
“No nation do we know but the nation of the Hirondelles,” came the ragged chant of strong male voices, resonant and gay with mockery.
“Hurons—Hirondelles, means ‘swallows,’ ” said Madame.
“Yes, I know,” said Alvina.
“So! you know! Well, then! We know no nation but the Hirondelles. We have no law but Huron law!”
“We have no law but Huron law!” sang the response, in a deep, sardonic chant.
“We have no lawgiver except Kishwégin.”
“We have no lawgiver except Kishwégin,” they sang sonorous.
“We have no home but the tent of Kishwégin.”
“We have no home but the tent of Kishwégin.”
“There is no good but the good of Natcha-Kee-Tawara.”
“There is no good but the good of Natcha-Kee-Tawara.”
“We are the Hirondelles.”
“We are the Hirondelles.”
“We are Kishwégin.”
“We are Kishwégin.”
“We are Mondagua.”
“We are Mondagua—”
“We are Atonquois—”
“We are Atonquois—”
“We are Pacohuila—”
“We are Pacohuila—”
“We are Walgatchka—”
“We are Walgatchka—”
“We are Allaye—”
“We are Allaye—”
“La musica! Pacohuila, la musica!” cried Madame, starting to her feet and sounding frenzied.
Ciccio got up quickly and took his mandolin from its case.
“A—A—Ai—Aii—eee—ya—” began Madame, with a long, faint wail. And on the wailing mandolin the music started. She began to dance a slight but intense dance. Then she waved for a partner, and set up a tarantella wail. Louis threw off his coat and sprang to tarantella attention, Ciccio rang out the peculiar tarantella, and Madame and Louis danced in the tight space.
“Brava—Brava!” cried the others, when Madame sank into her place. And they crowded forward to kiss her hand. One after the other, they kissed her fingers, whilst she laid her left hand languidly on the head of one man after another, as she sat slightly panting. Ciccio however did not come up, but sat faintly twanging the mandolin. Nor did Alvina leave her place.
“Pacohuila!” cried Madame, with an imperious gesture. “Allaye! Come—”
Ciccio laid down his mandolin and went to kiss the fingers of Kishwégin. Alvina also went forward. Madame held out her hand. Alvina kissed it. Madame laid her hand on the head of Alvina.
“This is the squaw Allaye, this is the daughter of Kishwégin,” she said, in her Tawara manner.
“And where is the brave of Allaye, where is the arm that upholds the daughter of Kishwégin, which of the Swallows spreads his wings over the gentle head of the new one!”
“Pacohuila!” said Louis.
“Pacohuila! Pacohuila! Pacohuila!” said the others.
“Spread soft wings, spread dark-roofed wings, Pacohuila,” said Kishwégin, and Ciccio, in his shirtsleeves solemnly spread his arms.
“Stoop, stoop, Allaye, beneath the wings of Pacohuila,” said Kishwégin, faintly pressing Alvina on the shoulder.
Alvina stooped and crouched under the right arm of Pacohuila.
“Has the bird flown home?” chanted Kishwégin, to one of the strains of their music.
“The bird is home—” chanted the men.
“Is the nest warm?” chanted Kishwégin.
“The nest is warm.”
“Does the he-bird stoop—?”
“He stoops.”
“Who takes Allaye?”
“Pacohuila.”
Ciccio gently stooped and raised Alvina to her feet.
“C’est ça!” said Madame, kissing her. “And now, children, unless the Sheffield policeman will knock at our door, we must retire to our wigwams all—”
Ciccio was watching Alvina. Madame made him a secret, imperative gesture that he should accompany the young woman.
“You have your key, Allaye?” she said.
“Did I have a key?” said Alvina.
Madame smiled subtly as she produced a latchkey.
“Kishwégin must open your doors for you all,” she said. Then, with a slight flourish, she presented the key to Ciccio. “I give it to him? Yes?” she added, with her subtle, malicious smile.
Ciccio, smiling slightly, and keeping his head ducked, took the key. Alvina looked brightly, as if
