on his right knee, rested his wounded arm upon the other, and took advantage of a branch that protruded from the trunk of the burned tree to support his gun.  With his finger on the trigger, his eye fixed on the wall, and his ear strained to catch the slightest sound, he knelt there, motionless, for several minutes, which seemed to him a century.  At last, behind him, in the far distance, he heard a faint shout, and very soon a dog flew like an arrow down the slope, and stopped short, close to him, wagging its tail.  It was Brusco, the comrade and follower of the bandits—­the herald, doubtless, of his master’s approach.  Never was any honest man more impatiently awaited.  With his muzzle in the air, and turned toward the nearest fence, the dog sniffed anxiously.  Suddenly he gave vent to a low growl, sprang at a bound over the wall, and almost instantly reappeared upon its crest, whence he gazed steadily at Orso with eyes that spoke surprise as clearly as a dog’s may do it.  Then he sniffed again, this time toward the other inclosure, the wall of which he also crossed.  Within a second he was back on the top of that, with the same air of astonishment and alarm, and straightway he bounded into the thicket with his tail between his legs, still gazing at Orso, and retiring from him slowly, and sideways, until he had put some distance between them.  Then off he started again, tearing up the slope almost as fast as he had come down it, to meet a man, who, in spite of its steepness, was rapidly descending.

“Help, Brando!” shouted Orso, as soon as he thought he was within hearing.

“Hallo!  Ors’ Anton’! are you wounded?” inquired Brandolaccio, as he ran up panting.  “Is it in your body or your limbs?”

“In the arm.”

“The arm—­oh, that’s nothing!  And the other fellow?”

“I think I hit him.”

Brandolaccio ran after the dog to the nearest field and leaned over to look at the other side of the wall, then pulling off his cap—­

“Signor Orlanduccio, I salute you!” said he, then turning toward Orso, he bowed to him, also, gravely.

“That,” he remarked, “is what I call a man who has been properly done for.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Orso, who could hardly breathe.

“Oh! he wouldn’t wish it! he’d be too much vexed about the bullet you put into his eye!  Holy Madonna!  What a hole!  That’s a good gun, upon my soul! what a weight!  That spatters a man’s brains for you!  Hark ye, Ors’ Anton’! when I heard the first piff, piff, says I to myself:  ’Dash it, they’re murdering my lieutenant!’ Then I heard boum, boum.  ‘Ha, ha!’ says I, ‘that’s the English gun beginning to talk—­he’s firing back.’  But what on earth do you want with me, Brusco?”

The dog guided him to the other field.

“Upon my word,” cried Brandolaccio, utterly astonished, “a right and left, that’s what it is!  Deuce take it!  Clear enough, powder must be dear, for you don’t waste it!”