“Got to be careful of fires,” he said gravely; “getch yer into trouble, they does. Alwers let yer smoke blow away from the ’igh road, that is if yer can—see, mate?”
But Gian-Luca was not attending to the words; he was watching the creating of the fire from three paper bags, and a few dryish sticks collected on the lee-side of the hedge. There in that rain-soaked English meadow the prehistoric ritual was performed—the ageless ritual of the calling of fire to the help and service of man. Like a priest of old, the tramp stretched forth his hands in a gesture of command and benediction, and the flames leapt up to the summons of those hands.
“Kind of attrac’s it, flesh do,” he explained, looking up at Gian-Luca.
Then they crouched beside the fire and let themselves steam, glad enough of the warmth and comfort; and the clouds broke apart, leaving rifts of blue sky, while the fire did its best to dry them.
Presently they sidled out through the hedge, having carefully stamped on the glowing ashes, and they walked as far as Basingstoke together, where the tramp said goodbye to Gian-Luca. He was going to pick up some work at a farm that lay two miles away down a lane.
“Just enough to keep me goin’ fer a bit, so I’ll ’ave to wish yer good afternoon, mister.” He had suddenly grown suspicious again, too suspicious to call this man “mate.”
Gian-Luca said: “If I keep to the high road, where shall I come to in the end?”
The tramp considered: “If yer keeps right on this way, yer’ll be bound to come to the Noo Forest.”
“The trees were right, then,” murmured Gian-Luca; “I felt that they were trying to lead me—”
“Gawd!” laughed the tramp, “you are balmy, aren’t yer? Well, goodbye, mister, and thank yer.”
Gian-Luca strode forward along the road, while the afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened; but still he strode forward, not pausing to rest, for his thoughts ran before him to the forest. At King’s Watney, however, he must stay the night, for his feet were aching and swollen; indeed, he was aching a little all over, having tramped that day for twenty-five miles. Securing a room at the Horse and Ploughman, he gingerly took off his shoes and socks, only to discover that his heels were both blistered and the skin of his feet very tender. He bathed them, remembering old Fabio in the process. Fabio would have recommended rubbing with soap, and since he did not know what else to do, Gian-Luca tried his prescription. He finally rolled into bed with a sigh, and was lying between sleeping and waking; then his mind saw a picture quite clearly in the darkness, a thing that had not happened for years. There were wide, placid spaces and running water; but something more lovely than this he saw—a quiet and very beautiful gloom, green from the leaves that made it.
“They have come to me again, my pictures,” he murmured.
And that was the end of the third day.
IV
Gian-Luca was up betimes the next morning, and his feet—thanks perhaps to Fabio’s prescription—were certainly much less painful. In Winchester he stopped to buy provisions, which he stuffed away in his knapsack; then he started to tramp again in good earnest, lured on by the thought of the forest. He had never been in this part of the country, and he noticed many pleasant things about it; all the cottages, for instance, were heavily thatched, and one cottage that he passed had a queer little window shaped like an eye, just under its hair, which gave it an inquisitive appearance. The walls, too, were thatched, the thatch sitting astride them, jauntily riding their tops.
The road became increasingly lovely; it was bordered once more with trees. “They look strong and proud and happy!” thought Gian-Luca, and he wondered if they felt the nearness of the forest, and if that was what made them look so happy.
He came to the sleepy town of Romsey, which he left by way of the old stone bridge that spans the River Test; the water was chuckling softly to itself, swollen by April rains. At the top of a steep hill he sat down to rest, eating his food by the roadside. A gipsy caravan crawled up towards him, and its inmates nodded and smiled at Gian-Luca; they had very bright eyes, like Nerone’s skylarks, only their eyes looked free. Smoke was coming from the chimney of their small house on wheels; no doubt they were cooking their breakfast. A whiff of fried bacon reached Gian-Luca, and two lean lurcher dogs dashed backwards and forwards, barking in anticipation.
“Where are you going to?” shouted Gian-Luca.
And the driver waved a brown hand: “To the forest,” he shouted loudly in his turn, in order to be heard above the barking.
Gian-Luca lay back and smiled in the sunshine, repeating the happy words; then he thought: “They
