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Salvatore feels quite happy at first. Often and often he would call her, merely in order to have the pleasure of hearing her voice echo through the ruined walls. By-and-by he finds out that she is very silent, and upbraids her for it; but of what should Marcantonia have spoken? Speaking and thinking were not in her line, and her dull range of thought did not extend beyond the circumscribed horizon of her daily work and wants. She knew a few songs -those indescribably mournful and monotonous songs of the Sabine people-and for some time Salvatore experienced a certain pleasure in listening to her, stretched out on his bed, or lying on the sand in the shadow of the old walls; but after a while he grew weary of those monotonous strains, and roughly forbade her to sing. Thenceforth Marcantonia sang no more unless directly ordered to do so.

Marcantonia shows no curiosity to hear about her husband's former life, when, seated together on the shore in the long summer evenings, he attempts to relate it to her. Impelled to break the silence by at least the sound of his own voice, he has told her all about the golden days of his youth, spent in the capital, and how there he had loved an actress and been betrayed by her, and then was forced to flee the country for having killed his rival. Marcantonia understands next to nothing of all this, nor does she care to hear more; and not once had the idea occurred to her that she is unsuited to this man who has made her his wife.

Five years later we find Marcantonia a mere shadow of her former self, whose glowing beauty had once lit the flame of passion in Salvatore's heart. At the age of twenty she is already a worn

and faded woman, a prey to the fever which is the doom of all her countrywomen. She has got one child, and has buried another. When this second child is dying, though passionately attached to it, Marcantonia does not pray for its life or offer candles to the Madonna, convinced that it would avail nothing. She accepts her fever as something natural and inevitable; and though sometimes so weak that she can scarcely drag herself about, performs her household duties as before, without thought of complaint. As a matter of course, too, she accepts her husband's rough words and rougher blows. Has not every man a right to treat his wife as he chooses? and is it not her duty to submit patiently to all his caprices? But yet the thought that he should ever come to feel ashamed of having married her never crossed Marcantonia's mind.

Then, one morning in spring, when Salvatore, with his dog and gun, had gone forth in quest of quail on the Holy Island, he hears sounds of gay talking and laughter, and peeping through the brushwood, catches sight of a group of fashionably dressed men and women come hither with a like purpose. Already they have netted dozens of the helpless birds, to which the ladies, with bloodthirsty eagerness and many becoming little cries of triumph, are giving the coup de grace.

His first impulse is to slink away unobserved, but something impels him to stay. It is long since the husband of Marcantonia has looked upon such apparitions, and although too far off to distinguish their features, an indescribable perfume of elegance, of refinement, seems to be wafted towards him as he crouches in the myrtle thicket. He would have

passed unnoticed had not a lady, pursuing a wounded quail escaped from the net, run straight in his direction. Despite her high heels, narrow skirts, and tightly laced bodice, she displays extraordinary agility in following her prey, and plunging into the thicket, suddenly finds herself confronted by a man with the appearance of a brigand.

"Lucia!' he cries, before she has had time to shriek out in terror; for in spite of her powdered cheeks, gold-dyed hair, and painted eyebrows, he has at once recognised his

former mistress.

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"She shuddered-then with choking voice and bated breath he tells her how, because of her, his life has been ruined, and how if she sees him now a broken and half-savage man, it has been her work. She recognises too that he loves her as madly as ever, and that in his eyes she is still young and beautiful.

"Meanwhile Marcantonia is sitting in front of the tower spinning. Often the distaff sinks from her hand, or the thread breaks off abruptly, for the fever that is in her makes her tremble piteously. In her dull fevered brain a pathetic thought is revolving somewhat in this fashion :

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'To-day the fever is strong. If only the quinine were not so dear. But Salvatore thinks it does not help, and he must know. I shall beg him to go to Crocetta to the monks, and ask for leaves from the fever-tree. I shall cook them. If only Silvio is spared from the fever! If it were any good, I would vow a veil to the black Madonna at Genezzano. I have linen enough, and the lace I could make in winter. But it is of no use. Little Francesco was also obliged to die. Perhaps I shall die this summer when the others go to Arriccia. What does it signify? there is nothing to be done against it.'

Her reveries are interrupted by approaching footsteps and voices. Salvatore is returning with a gay party of gentlemen and ladies who have desired to see his watch-tower. Marcantonia, ordered to roast the quails they have brought with them, sullenly obeys; but when she sees the stout painted woman with the yellow hair caressing the little Silvio, and luring him to her side by a shining gold piece, she throws herself like a tiger upon her rival, and snatches away her child from the grasp of the astonished actress. The gold coin Marcantonia contemptuously casts on the ground, and retires with the gait of an outraged empress.

After this first meeting Salvatore goes often to Rome to visit Lucia, for whom his old passion has revived with tenfold force. Danger of recognition there is none, for she alone knows his secret. His long tawny beard and coarse linen blouse are sufficient to disguise him from the Salvatore of former days. Lucia is meditating an ex

cursion to America as directress of a dramatic company of her own, and it occurs to her that her former lover may be of use to her there. She has small difficulty in persuading him of the illegality of his marriage with Marcantonia. At the time when he had wedded her, the law of civil marriage was long since established in Italy. monk had no authority or right to marry them at all. It would therefore be easy for him to shake off this low creature, who had no legal claim upon him. But the child was pretty, and Lucia had taken a fancy to it-they would take it with them to America.

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has prepared with his stupid bungling. His wife indeed! Was the monk not aware that this woman was not his wife at all? that he had no right to perform the marriage ceremony? If the matter were reported to headquarters at Rome, then he-the monk-would be severely punished.

The good old monk was sorely frightened, for in truth he knew that the Government had proclaimed certain new-fangled laws with regard to marriage; and though the servants of God need not observe the laws of an impious Government, why should a poor, old, fever-sick man have to suffer because of his obedience to God?

With a sigh he is forced to acknowledge that though binding in the sight of heaven, Salvatore's marriage is invalid in the eye of the law, and finally consents to come and explain the matter to the poor betrayed woman. "Marcantonia is so stupid," says Salvatore, "I could never get her to understand."

The scene in which the goodnatured, easy-going monk endeavours to explain this complicated case without compromising his own conscience, is one of the best in the book.

"Marcantonia had put oil-soup, frittata, ricotta, bread, and wine before the two men, and then crouched herself down in a corner to rest from the exertion of cooking. She looks on while the monk clears the platters almost unaided, Salvatore confining himself chiefly to the wine, which he

feverishly quaffed in great draughts. Suddenly he calls out to the Padre with hoarse voice, 'Enough-you have eaten enough Now tell her.' Then gulping down the contents of a last glass, he gets up and throws himself on the bed.

"The monk finished swallowing his morsel, then sighed plaintively and prepared to speak.

"Well-well; yes, I shall tell her. Hey, Marcantonia! where have you hidden yourself?'

"Marcantonia would have risen and gone to the hearth, but the monk called out to her to remain where she was. So she remained. The Padre began

"It is godless, my good Marcantonia, godless! I mean the Government, and how the Government breaks

the laws of God. You know that prisoner in Rome, that they drive they have made the Holy Father the blessed saints from their houses, and that the Government persecutes us poor monks and servants of God like the very devil himself? You have heard of the Government, my good Marcantonia, have you not?'

"Marcantonia had heard of the Government often enough, but she had never formed any idea of what the Government exactly was. How should she? No one expected that of her. The monk was satisfied to know that

she had heard of it. He continued

"That you may learn to what a pass things have come in the world, what injustice is done to the Church, and how the kingdom of Satan is spreading over the earth. Now, for instance, I myself have married you You are the wife of to this man. this man, or rather you believe yourself so to be. Is it not so, my poor Marcantonia?'

"Marcantonia believed it.

"Well, you see, you believe it; and it would be so if everything were in order. But here now comes that rascally Government and says, 'What-how? Marcantonia should be the wife of Sor Baldassare? How so? What does Marcantonia imagine? That the Padre Agostino of Crocetta had married her to Sor Baldassare? May the fever take the fellow! What business has the fellow to marry Marcantonia to Sor Baldassare? How does the fellow come by such a notion? How can the fellow presume to do such a thing? Has he perhaps received the papers? Did Marcantonia and Sor Baldassare bring him the papers to testify that the Government had married them together? Hey, Marcantonia, did you bring me the papers?'

"Marcantonia had brought no papers to the Padre Agostino; knew nothing about papers-nothing at all. She sat there immovable, staring at the monk, listening, and-well, just listening.

"Padre Agostino began to lose his composure.

"Yes; my poor Marcantonia, if you have brought no papers to Padre Agostino, says that dog of a Government, then I cannot help you-it is a bad business; for that fellow of a monk had no right at all to marry you to Sor Baldassare. Then may the devil carry off that scoundrelly monk, for you are not at all the wife of Sor Baldassare, says that devil of a Government. Do you understand, my poor Marcantonia ?'

"But Marcantonia understood nothing-not a word did she understand. How should she not be the wife of her husband?-she who had been married to him by a priest in a church; who had borne him children, and had ever been to him a true and obedient wife? No; she understood nothing of all this.

"Large drops of perspiration began to stand on Padre Agostino's brow. He loudly bewailed the injustice done to the Church; rated that Satan of a Government whose disorders disturbed the peace of the Holy Father at Rome; scolded Salvatore and Marcantonia because they had brought him no papers, and had therefore cheated and belied him; endeavoured once more to make her understand the matter, that she was not at all the wife of her husband, but merely his mistress-at least, so says that Beelzebub of a Government!

"And do you not see, my poor Marcantonia, that if Sor Baldassare were to go to Rome to-morrow and marry there, he can do so, for the Government will say to him: You can take a wife whenever you please, my worthy Sor Baldassare, only you

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must come to us first with her. After that you can go with your wife wherever you please,-to Padre Agostino at Crocetta for aught we care." So is it, my poor Marcantonia. It is sinful -godless. But what can we poor monks do to hinder it? You see it yourself, my daughter, do you not?'

"Did Marcantonia see it? She had risen, and, like a moving statue, had advanced to the hearth, whose glowing embers cast a lurid light upon her, on her ghastly face, on her limply hanging arms. Salvatore had raised himself up on his couch: he held his breath; his eyes hung upon her figure.

"Slowly Marcantonia said"Is he going to Rome to-morrow to take another wife?'

"The monk cried out, 'Not so, not so! This was merely an example to make you understand the matter. How can you think of such a thing? I was only telling you how that blackguardly Government would speak to him and say, "Sor Baldassare, you can take another wife when you please, for Marcantonia is not your wife." He can, my daughter, but he will not. Is it not so, Sor Baldassare? Tell this good creature that you do not think of such a thing; that you are sorry for her, and furious with that diabolical Government. But what can you do??

"No, Salvatore would do nothing. Even Marcantonia was obliged to see that; and she must see, too, that it was generous of him not to go to Rome to-morrow and take another wife."

The monk beats a hasty retreat, for he feels uncomfortable in face of that rigid, staring figure. He would have given her his blessing at parting, but she declines. Salvatore accompanies the monk, for he too does not care to remain alone in her presence. By next morning, however, he has regained his composure, and in a few cold words gives Marcantonia her dismissal. She has heard what the monk has said, and that they are nothing to each other. She must go, for he also would be soon leaving the tower; and here was money to enable her to go back to her mountains, or wherever she chose. Marcantonia took the money, but in the next moment let it drop to the ground. Sal

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"Marcantonia gave a hoarse cry,not a scream of madness or fury, but rather it sounded like the last dying wail of a creature forsaken by God and man. She had no more strength to call upon her child to follow her. All grew black before her eyes, and groping blindly as in the dark, she turned to go away from home, husband, and child; crawling with sorely shaking limbs, but never pausing or looking back, even when she hears her boy begin to cry."

She was already far on her way across the burning plain when she noticed that their dog Garrib had followed her. She chased it away; but when the faithful animal would not leave her side, and sprang up caressingly to her, she took a stone and threw it at her only friend. Then she went on alone-on and on over the burning steppe she struggled painfully. Dazzled by the glare, she had momentarily closed her eyes, and is nearly ridden down by a troop of carabinieri. Lucia, having changed her mind, has betrayed her lover, and these soldiers are now search of him. They stop and question Marcantonia as to the whereabouts of Baldassare Leste, alias Salvatore Barozzi. They have been told that he is concealed at the Torre San Michelecan she give them any information? Marcantonia, her dormant faculties aroused by the danger of the man who has been her hus

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band, contrives to deceive the carabinieri. Not at the Torre San Michele will they find the man they seek, she tells them, but at the Torre Paterno, ten miglie in the opposite direction. The carabinieri, after a few oaths, depart on the false scent. Marcantonia gazes scornfully after them. The fools, to think that a Sabine woman would stoop to betray, and were it her most deadly enemy!

Painfully, laboriously, Marcanself back to the ruined tower in tonia turns again, and drags her

order to warn Salvatore of his danger. He will yet have time to escape; but the child! She cannot suffer it to become the

property of that painted woman; she will save it. And having picked up a large poisonous serpent, which she stupefies with a blow, she regains the Torre San Michele before sunset. Salvatore is asleep, but the little Silvio runs out to meet his mother. He catches sight of her tied-up white veil.

What is in it? Has she brought him something?

"Silvio seized hold of the bundle, but Marcantonia took it from him, embraced her child, and opened the cloth.

"Silvio cried out in terror: a large serpent had darted out swift as an arrow, and had bit him in the arm. In the next instant the reptile had vanished in the grass."

Salvatore awoke to find his boy dead, and his discarded wife returned to warn him of his danger.

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