ad parted company with these
worthies, he heard a man running after him, as fast as he could go. It
was Brandolaccio.

"This is too bad, lieutenant!" he shouted breathlessly, "really it is
too bad! I wouldn't overlook the trick, if any other man had played
it on me. Here are your ten francs. All my respects to Mademoiselle
Colomba. You have made me run myself quite out of breath. Good-night!"

CHAPTER XII

Orso found Colomba in a state of considerable anxiety because of his
prolonged absence. But as soon as she saw him she recovered her usual
serene, though sad, expression. During the evening meal the conversation
turned on trivial subjects, and Orso, emboldened by his sister's
apparent calm, related his encounter with the bandits, and even ventured
on a joke or two concerning the moral and religious education that was
being imparted to little Chilina, thanks to the care of her uncle and of
his worthy colleague Signor Castriconi.

"Brandolaccio is an upright man," said Colomba; "but as to Castriconi, I
have heard he is quite unprincipled."

"I think," said Orso, "that he is as good as Brandolaccio, and
Brandolaccio is as good as he. Both of them are at open war with
society. Their first crime leads them on to fresh ones, every day, and
yet they are very likely not half so guilty as many people who don't
live in the _maquis_."

A flash of joy shone in his sister's eyes. "Yes," he continued, "these
wretches have a code of honour of their own. It is a cruel prejudice,
not a mean instinct of greed, that has forced them into the life they
are leading."

There was a silence.

"Brother," said Colomba, as she poured out his coffee, "perhaps you have
heard that Carlo-Battista Pietri died last night. Yes, he died of the
marsh-fever."

"Who is Pietri?"

"A man belonging to this village, the husband of Maddalena, who took the
pocket-book out of our father's hand as he was dying. His widow has been
here to ask me to join the watchers, and sing something. You ought to
come, too. They are our neighbours, and in a small place like this we
can not do otherwise than pay them this civility."

"Confound these wakes, Colomba! I don't at all like my sister to perform
in public in this way."

"Orso," replied Colomba, "every country pays honour to its dead after
its own fashion. The _ballata_ has come down to us from our forefathers,
and we must respect it as an ancient custom. Maddalena does not possess
the 'gift,' and ol