"Five or six hundred years ago!" repeated Andrea incredulously, his childish mind refusing to compass so great a lapse of time. "Well--thereabouts," Paolo resumed, somewhat disturbed at the interruption; "it was in the time of the crusades. Have you everheard of the crusades, my dear?" And he softly touched Maria's chin. Before she could reply, her brother put in, proudly, "I know, they were wars to rescue the holy lands from the--" he paused.
"Infidels," supplied Paolo approvingly. "That's right." And any one seeing the old man would surely have thought that he had
himself fought against the infidels, such fire shot from his eyes, and so tense became his muscles. "It was in the Fourth Crusade that
Venice played so mighty a part."
"Was Dandolo the leader?" asked Andrea, sitting bolt upright in his excitement, and forgetting the pigeon which, loosed by the sud-den movement, escaped, and soared, with a quick spiral curve, to the blue sky.
Regretfully, the child watched the flight, but settled back as Paolo went on:
"Old though he was, he was the hero of the whole expedition. Even the French had no general to compare with him. And tell me, both of you, did you ever see a picture of a Doge of Venice?"
"I have!" Maria cried; "and he wore a coat all red and gold and a cap--"
"Si! si!" the old man interrupted, almost beside himself with excitement; "those were his robes of state, but in armor, and on horse-
back before the walls of Constantinople! Ah, then he must have been magnifico!"
"On horseback, did you say?" repeated Andrea, and his eyes wandered to the bronze steeds the manes of which glistened in the sunlight.
Paolo nodded, "And I have no doubt but that the one great Dandolo rode was like those very horses; and, by the way, my lad, did you ever hear that they were part of the spoils he brought from the East in triumph and placed above our own St. Mark's?"
Without allowing Andrea time to comment on the amazing fact, he went on, still more excitedly;
"It is said that Dandolo, great as he was, would not have been able to take the city had it not been for a messenger pigeon that brought him most important information. Nor is that all the part the brave birds played at this great time, for it was no other than some of our own fine homers that conveyed the first news of glorious victory to Venice. Hence it was, that when the Doge returned, in triumph, he issued a proclamation that the pigeons should evermore be held in reverence."
Paolo paused, well-nigh exhausted by his enthusiasm, and, reaching over, laid his withered hand on the birds that still cooed contentedly in Maria's lap.
"It's no wonder they're so tame when every one has been loving them for the last five or six hundred years!" she murmured.
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"Paolo!" Andrea suddenly asked, with sparkling eyes, "do you suppose that we can teach my pigeon to carry messages?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," replied the old caretaker, entering into the lad's enthusiasm; "they're as intelligent now as they ever were. All they need is the training. It's funny how their little heads can hold so much."
Reaching over, he took one of the birds from Maria's lap and pointed to the bulge just above the tiny ear:
"Some people say that's where their sense of direction is located, but you can't convince me it isn't in their hearts. It's the love they have for their homes that makes 'em fly from any distance straight to their nesting-places. I've noticed that a good homing pigeon has bright eyes, and a stout heart, not to mention a keen sense of direction, and strong wings to carry him long distances, but more than all else, there must be the love of home."
Andrea had lost not a syllable of what the old man said. For a long time he had secretly cherished the desire to own one of the pretty
fluttering creatures, but not, until now, had the possibility occurred to him that he might teach one to carry messages.
Long after Paolo had returned to his duties in the church, the boy sat watching the clouds of pigeons circling above, or flying double
(bird and shadow), against the walls of the church.
He had made up his mind that as soon as Paolo fulfilled his promise, he would begin to train his fledgling.
"There's no knowing," he cried eagerly to Maria, "what important messages my bird will carry!"
In reply she only smiled--it was enough for her that the pigeons loved to have her stroke them as they nestled in her lap. CHAPTER III
MARIA'S BIRTHDAY
Andrea was so possessed with his idea that he ran every step of the way home that afternoon, climbed up the narrow dark stairs, two steps at a time, and burst upon his mother in such excitement that she feared some misfortune had befallen the children.
"What is it?" she cried, looking up from the stiff porridge she was mixing, "are you hurt?--and Maria--where is she?"
"Nothing has happened," was the breathless answer; "that is, nothing dreadful, and Maria is behind with Paolo. It is only--" his dark
cheeks flushed. "It is only that he has promised me a pigeon of my own!"
"Is that all?" Greatly relieved, his mother turned again to the polenta. [Footnote: Cake, or thick porridge made of maize.] What a child he was, to be sure, to be so pleased at the idea of the possession of a pigeon!
"But, madre," he protested, "I am going to train it to carry messages. There's no knowing what my pigeon will do!"
"Si! Si!" She replied absently as she turned to see if the charcoal was right for the baking.
It was a mean little house, at least so it would seem to most American children--just three rooms overlooking one of the side canals,
and over a fish shop. It was built of brick (no one knew, how long ago), and was wedged in between others, of exactly the same type.
But it was home, and whatever else it lacked, it had a front window, with shutters, and a balcony with an iron railing, and when tucked up in their beds at night, in the tiny dark alcove, the children could hear the soft swish of the water against the embankment.
In spite of the window, even the best room was never very light, and only an occasional streak of sunshine found its way in, but on those rare occasions it fell upon the choicest treasure of the home, a rude colored print of the Virgin, in a modest shrine, hung with gilded fringe. On the shelf above, Luisa took care to see that a lamp was ever burning, and on the table before it stood always a tiny vase of fresh flowers. What matter, that the carpet was old, and the furniture worn, the Virgin's shrine was there!
Unconsciously, the children trod gently in this room, and their laughter was subdued, but in the kitchen--ah, there, their spirits were unrestrained.
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Maria was not long behind her brother, but the scampi,[Footnote: Fish.] were already frying in the pan, before Giovanni, in his working shirt, appeared in the doorway, hungry and ready for his dinner.
"Padre! Padre!" cried Andrea; "only guess--the pet I am to have!" Then, with scarcely an instant's pause, he went on, in a shrill voice, "A pigeon, padre, isn't that--GREAT?"
