hold, and his dog on him; on a barrel in a
corner a gigantic shepherd in leather, with bandaged legs and a patch
over one eye, shut the other eye while he roared a hymn to Bacchus at
the top stretch of his lungs. The oil-lamp flickered, flared, and
gloomed, half drowned in the fumes of wine. A smell of wicked bodies,
foul clothes, drink, and bad language made the air well-nigh solid. The
hour was at the stroke of ten; outside the streets seemed asleep.

In the middle of the uproar Stefano the host looked up sharply,
listening.

"Stop your devil's ferment, Malabocca!" he thundered at the shepherd;
"stop it, or I'll split your crown."

"Bacco trionfante,
Amante e spumante,
Evviva l'ubbriacchezza!"

roared Malabocca, screwing up his eye.

Stefano brought down a mug full of wine upon his pate, which gave him a
red baptism.

"Mum, you blockhead, mum!" said his host "There is a stir outside the
door I tell you!"

The shepherd grew sober in a moment.

There was a brief scramble in the room--then silence. The ladies'
petticoats went farther than they were ever intended to go; Picagente
rolled over and over till he reached cover under the table; the cards
were hidden, all the players' heads buried in their elbows. Stefano blew
out the light. Then they heard distinctly a fluttering knock at the
door, timid but continuous.

Feigning a yawn, Stefano growled, "Who's there at this hour?"

The answer came in a woman's voice, saying, "Open, open, in the name of
high God." It brought every head into the air again, but hushed every
breath.

The shepherd broke the silence with a groan. He brought his hand
splashing on to his wet head, then fell to his knees and began to
confess his sins.

"My fault, my fault, my exceeding great fault! O Mary! O Jesus! _O nobis
peccatoribus!_"

Thus the shepherd, voicing the suspicions of the rest. So he became
their prophet as well as their priest. He towered in the room.

"I tell you, comrades, that the hour of our visitation is come. Not Can
Grande and his hounds are hunting us this night; not the tumbril, the
branding-irons, nor the cart's tail, are for us; but the pains of death,
the fire eternal, the untirable worm, the trumpet of the Last Things!
Who comes knocking in high God's name? Who saith 'Open'?--I will tell
you: it is She who last night lit upon my village and my own sister's
son. Eh! bodies of all dogs, what will become of us sinners?" Here the
shephe