ffect, but a moment
had not passed before the old peasant lay sprawling on his back with
both the boys on top of him.

"You cannot hurt the mother now," said Ruggiero. "Hit him as I do,
Bastianello!"

And the four bony boyish fists fell in a storm of savage blows upon Don
Pietro Casale's leathern face and eyes and head and thin grey lips.

"That is for the mother," said Ruggiero. "Another fifty a-piece for
ourselves."

The wiry old peasant struggled desperately, and at last threw himself
free of them and staggered to his feet.

"Quick, Bastianello!" shouted Ruggiero.

In the twinkling of an eye they were over the fence and running at full
speed for the valley. Don Pietro bruised, dazed and half-blinded,
struggled after them, crashing through hedges and stumbling into ditches
while he shouted for help in his pursuit. But his heavy shoes hampered
him, and at best he was no match for them in speed. His face was covered
with purple blotches and his eyelids were swelling at a terrible rate.
Out of breath and utterly worn out he stood still and steadied himself
against a crooked olive-tree. He could no longer hear even the footsteps
of the lads before him.

They were beyond his reach now. The last of the Children of the King had
left Verbicaro, where their fathers had lived and died since darker ages
than Calabrian history has accurately recorded.

CHAPTER II.

"We shall never see him again," said Ruggiero, stopping at last and
looking back over the stone wall he had just cleared.

Sebastiano listened intently. He was not tall enough to see over, but
his ears were sharp.

"I do not hear him any more," he answered. "I hurt my hands on his
nose," he added, thoughtfully, as he glanced at his bruised knuckles.

"So did I," returned his brother. "He will remember us. Come along--it
is far to Scalea."

"To Scalea? Are we going to Scalea?"

"Eh! If not, where? And where else can we eat? Don Antonino will give us
a piece of bread."

"There are figs here," suggested Sebastiano, looking up into the trees
around them.

"It has not rained yet, and if you eat figs from the tree before it has
rained you will have pain. But if we are very hungry we will eat them,
all the same."

Little Sebastiano yielded rather reluctantly before his brother's
superior wisdom. Besides, Padre Michele had given them a little cold
bean porridge at the monastery early in the morning. So they went on
their way cautiously, and look