them; it is just what I should like. Let them appeal.
I will fight them at law, and beat them in full court--the ruffians!"
She gives a short, scornful laugh. "Yes, we will fight it out at
Barga."

Suddenly the marchesa stops. Her eyes have now reached the
balance-sheet on the last page. She draws a long breath.

"Why, there is nothing!" she exclaims, placing her forefinger on
the total, then raising her head and fixing her eyes on
Silvestro--"nothing!"

Silvestro shrinks, as it were, into himself. He silently bows his head
in terrified acquiescence.

"A thousand francs! How am I to live on a thousand francs!"

Silvestro shakes from head to foot. One hand slides from the lock; he
joins it to the other, clasps them both together, and sways himself to
and fro as a man in bodily anguish.

At the sight of the balance-sheet a kind of horror has come over the
marchesa. So intense is this feeling, she absolutely forgets to
abuse Silvestro. All she desires is to get rid of him before she has
betrayed her alarm.

"I shall call a council," she says, collecting herself; "I shall take
the chair. I shall find funds to meet these wants. Give the sindaco
and Ser Giacomo notice of this, Silvestro, immediately."

The steward stares at his mistress in mute amazement. He inclines his
head, and turns to go; better ask her no questions and escape.

"Silvestro!"--the marchesa calls after him imperiously--"come here."
(She is resolved that he, a menial, shall see no change in her.) "At
this season the woods are full of game. I will have no poachers, mind.
Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door--do
you hear? No one shall carry a gun within my woods."

Silvestro's lips form to two single words, and these come very faint:
"The poor!" Then he holds himself together, terrified.

"The poor!" retorts the marchesa, defiantly--"the poor! For shame,
Silvestro! They shall not overrun my woods and break through my
vineyards--they shall not! You hear?" Her shrill voice rings round the
low room, "No poachers--no trespassers, remember that; I shall tell
Adamo the same. Now go, and, as you pass, tell Fra Pacifico I want him
to-morrow." ("He must help me with Enrica," was her thought.)

When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa's pale
face. One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before
her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk. She
leaned back in her chair, cro