Mommo was surly, but respectful enough.  Yes, it was his cart, and he was a regular carter on the Frascati road.  Yes, this was undoubtedly a sick man, who had climbed upon the cart while Mommo was asleep.  Of course he had slept on the road, all carters did, and he had no dog, else no one would have dared to take liberties with his cart.  No, he had never seen the sick man.  The carabineers might send him to penal servitude for life, tear out his tongue, cut off his ears and nose, load him with chains, and otherwise annoy him, but he had never seen the sick man.  If he had seen him, he would have pulled him off, and kicked him all the way to the hospital, where he ought to be.  What right had such brigands as sick men to tamper with the carts of honest people?  If the fellow had legs to jump upon the cart, he had legs to walk.  Had Mommo ever done anything wrong in his life, that this should be done to him?  Had he stolen, or killed anybody, or tried to evade the octroi duty?  No.  Then why should an ugly thief of a sick man climb upon his cart?  The wretch had hardly clothes enough to cover him decently—­a torn shirt and a pair of old trousers that he must have stolen, for they were much too short for him!  And so on, and so forth, to the crowd, for the carabineers paid no more attention to him after he had answered their first questions; but the crowd listened with interest, the small boys drew near again, the octroi inspectors looked on, and Mommo had a sympathetic audience.  It was the general opinion that he had been outrageously put upon, and that some one had murdered the sick man, and had tied the body to the cart in order that Mommo should be accused of the crime, it being highly likely that a murderer should take so much unnecessary trouble to carry his victim and the evidence of his crime about with him in such a very public manner.

“If he were dead, now,” observed an old peasant, who had trudged in with a bundle on his back, “you would immediately be sent to the galleys.”

This was so evident that the crowd felt very sorry for Mommo.

“Of course I should,” he answered.  “By this time to-morrow I should have chains on my legs, and be breaking stones!  What is the law for, I should like to know?”

Meanwhile, the carabineers had lifted Marcello very gently from the cart and had carried him into the octroi guard-house, where they set him in a chair, wrapped the ragged blanket round his knees and waist, and poured a little wine down his throat.  Seeing that he was very weak, and having ascertained that he had nothing whatever about him by which he could be identified, they sent for the municipal doctor of that quarter of the city.