“Carlo-Battista!  May Christ receive thy soul! . . .  To live is to suffer!  Thou goest to a place . . . where there is neither sun nor cold. . . .  No longer dost thou need thy pruning-hook . . . nor thy heavy pick. . . .  There is no more work for thee! . . .  Henceforward all thy days are Sundays! . . .  Carlo-Battista!  May Christ receive thy soul! . . .  Thy son rules in thy house. . . .  I have seen the oak fall, . . . dried up by the libeccio. . . .  I thought it was dead indeed, . . . but when I passed it again, its root . . . had thrown up a sapling. . . .  The sapling grew into an oak . . . of mighty shade. . . .  Under its great branches, Maddele, rest thee well! . . .  And think of the oak that is no more!”

Here Maddalena began to sob aloud, and two or three men who, on occasion, would have shot at a Christian as coolly as at a partridge, brushed big tears off their sunburnt faces.

For some minutes Colomba continued in this strain, addressing herself sometimes to the corpse, sometimes to the family, and sometimes, by a personification frequently employed in the ballata, making the dead man himself speak words of consolation or counsel to his kinsfolk.  As she proceeded, her face assumed a sublime expression, a delicate pink tinge crept over her features, heightening the brilliancy of her white teeth and the lustre of her flashing eyes.  She was like a Pythoness on her tripod.  Save for a sigh here and there, or a strangled sob, not the slightest noise rose from the assembly that crowded about her.  Orso, though less easily affected than most people by this wild kind of poetry, was soon overcome by the general emotion.  Hidden in a dark corner of the room, he wept as heartily as Pietri’s own son.

Suddenly a slight stir was perceptible among the audience.  The circle opened, and several strangers entered.  The respect shown them, and the eagerness with which room was made for them, proved them to be people of importance, whose advent was a great honour to the household.  Nevertheless, out of respect for the ballata, nobody said a word to them.  The man who had entered first seemed about forty years of age.  From his black coat, his red rosette, his confident air, and look of authority, he was at once guessed to be the prefect.  Behind him came a bent old man with a bilious-looking complexion, whose furtive and anxious glance was only partially concealed by his green spectacles.  He wore a black coat, too large for him, and which, though still quite new, had evidently been made several years previously.  He always kept close beside the prefect and looked as though he would fain hide himself under his shadow.  Last of all, behind him, came two tall young men, with sunburnt faces, their cheeks hidden by heavy whiskers, proud and arrogant-looking, and showing symptoms of an impertinent curiosity.  Orso had had time to forget the faces of his village neighbours; but the sight of the old man in green spectacles instantly