d Fiordispina, the best _voceratrice_ in the country,
is ill. They must have somebody for the _ballata_."

"Do you believe Carlo-Battista won't find his way safely into the next
world unless somebody sings bad poetry over his bier? Go if you choose,
Colomba--I'll go with you, if you think I ought. But don't improvise! It
really is not fitting at your age, and--sister, I beg you not to do it!"

"Brother, I have promised. It is the custom here, as you know, and, I
tell you again, there is nobody but me to improvise."

"An idiotic custom it is!"

"It costs me a great deal to sing in this way. It brings back all our
own sorrows to me. I shall be ill after it, to-morrow. But I must do it.
Give me leave to do it. Brother, remember that when we were at Ajaccio,
you told me to improvise to amuse that young English lady who makes a
mock of our old customs. So why should I not do it to-day for these poor
people, who will be grateful to me, and whom it will help to bear their
grief?"

"Well, well, as you will. I'll go bail you've composed your _ballata_
already, and don't want to waste it."

"No, brother, I couldn't compose it beforehand. I stand before the dead
person, and I think about those he has left behind him. The tears spring
into my eyes, and then I sing whatever comes into my head."

All this was said so simply that it was quite impossible to suspect
Signorina Colomba of the smallest poetic vanity. Orso let himself be
persuaded, and went with his sister to Pietri's house. The dead man lay
on a table in the largest room, with his face uncovered. All the doors
and windows stood open, and several tapers were burning round the table.
At the head stood the widow, and behind her a great many women, who
filled all one side of the room. On the other side were the men, in
rows, bareheaded, with their eyes fixed on the corpse, all in the
deepest silence. Each new arrival went up to the table, kissed the dead
face, bowed his or her head to the widow and her son, and joined the
circle, without uttering a word. Nevertheless, from time to time one
of the persons present would break the solemn silence with a few words,
addressed to the dead man.

"Why has thou left thy good wife?" said one old crone. "Did she not take
good care of thee? What didst thou lack? Why not have waited another
month? Thy daughter-in-law would have borne thee a grandson!" A tall
young fellow, Pietri's son, pressed his father's cold hand and cried:
"Oh!