oken by long intervals of silence. All at
once they heard a horse's gallop.

"Ah! That must be my brother at last!" said Colomba, rising from her
chair. But when she saw Chilina astride on Orso's horse--"My brother is
dead!" she cried, in a heart-rending voice.

The colonel dropped his glass. Miss Lydia screamed. They all rushed to
the door of the house. Before Chilina could jump off her steed, she was
snatched up like a feather by Colomba, who held her so tight that she
almost choked her. The child understood her agonized look, and her first
words were those of the chorus in Othello: "He lives!" Colomba's grasp
relaxed, and nimbly as a kitten Chilina dropped upon the ground.

"The others?" queried Colomba hoarsely. Chilina crossed herself with
her first and middle finger. A deep flush instantly replaced the deadly
pallor of Colomba's face. She cast one fierce look at the Barricini
dwelling, and then, with a smile, she turned to her guests.

"Let us go in and drink our coffee," she said.

The story the bandit's Iris had to tell was a long one. Her narrative,
translated literally into Italian by Colomba, and then into English by
Miss Nevil, wrung more than one oath from the colonel, more than one
sigh from the fair Lydia. But Colomba heard it all unmoved. Only she
twisted her damask napkin till it seemed as if she must tear it in
pieces. She interrupted the child, five or six times over, to make her
repeat again that Brandolaccio had said the wound was not dangerous,
and that he had seen many worse. When she had finished her tale, Chilina
announced that Orso earnestly begged he might be sent writing materials,
and that he desired his sister would beseech a lady who might be staying
in his house not to depart from it, until she had received a letter from
him.

"That is what was worrying him most," the child added; "and even after I
had started he called me back, to bid me not forget the message. It
was the third time he had given it to me." When Colomba heard of
her brother's injunction she smiled faintly, and squeezed the fair
Englishwoman's hand. That young lady burst into tears, and did not seem
to think it advisable to translate that particular part of the story to
her father.

"Yes, my dear," cried Colomba, kissing Miss Nevil. "You shall stay with
me, and you shall help us."

Then, taking a pile of old linen out of a cupboard, she began to cut it
up, to make lint and bandages. Any one who saw her flashing ey