why hast thou not died of the _mala morte_?[*] Then we could have
avenged thee!"

[*] _La mala morte_, a violent death.

These were the first words to fall on Orso's ear as he entered the room.
At the sight of him the circle parted, and a low murmur of curiosity
betrayed the expectation roused in the gathering by the _voceratrice's_
presence. Colomba embraced the widow, took one of her hands, and stood
for some moments wrapped in meditation, with her eyelids dropped. Then
she threw back her _mezzaro_, gazed fixedly at the corpse, and bending
over it, her face almost as waxen as that of the dead man, she began
thus:

"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 entere