d. The respect shown them, and the
eagerness with which room was made for them, proved them to be people
of importance, whose advent was a great honour to the household.
Nevertheless, out of respect for the _ballata_, nobody said a word to
them. The man who had entered first seemed about forty years of age.
From his black coat, his red rosette, his confident air, and look of
authority, he was at once guessed to be the prefect. Behind him came
a bent old man with a bilious-looking complexion, whose furtive and
anxious glance was only partially concealed by his green spectacles. He
wore a black coat, too large for him, and which, though still quite new,
had evidently been made several years previously. He always kept close
beside the prefect and looked as though he would fain hide himself
under his shadow. Last of all, behind him, came two tall young men,
with sunburnt faces, their cheeks hidden by heavy whiskers, proud and
arrogant-looking, and showing symptoms of an impertinent curiosity.
Orso had had time to forget the faces of his village neighbours; but
the sight of the old man in green spectacles instantly called up old
memories in his mind. His presence in attendance on the prefect sufficed
to insure his recognition. This was Barricini, the lawyer, mayor of
Pietranera, who had come, with his two sons, to show the prefect what a
_ballata_ was. It would be difficult exactly to describe what happened
within Orso's soul at that moment, but the presence of his father's foe
filled him with a sort of horror, and more than ever he felt inclined to
yield to the suspicions with which he had been battling for so long.

As to Colomba, when she saw the man against whom she had sworn a deadly
hatred, her mobile countenance assumed a most threatening aspect. She
turned pale, her voice grew hoarse, the line she had begun to declaim
died on her lips. But soon, taking up her _ballata_ afresh, she
proceeded with still greater vehemence.

"When the hawk bemoans himself . . . beside his harried nest, . . . the
starlings flutter round him . . . insulting his distress."

A smothered laugh was heard. The two young men who had just come in
doubtless considered the metaphor too bold.

"The falcon will rouse himself. . . . He will spread his wings. . . . He
will wash his beak in blood! . . . Now, to thee, Carlo-Battista, let
thy friends . . . bid an eternal farewell! . . . Long enough have their
tears flowed! . . . Only the poor orphan gi