At a bend in it she came to a spot where a young man was seated amongst the bulrushes, watching his fishing net.

“Aie!” she cried with a shrill cry of alarm, like a bird who sees a fowler.  She stopped short in her progress; the water at that moment was up to her knees.  With both hands she held up her petticoat to save it from another wetting; her little bundle was balanced on her head, the light shone in her great brown eyes.  The youth turned and saw her.

She was a very young girl, thirteen at most; her small flat breasts were those of a child, her narrow shoulders and her narrow loin spoke of scanty food and privation of all kinds, and her arms and legs were brown from the play of the sun on their nakedness; they were little else than skin and bone, nerves and sinew, and looked like stakes of wood.  All the veins and muscles stood revealed as in anatomy, and her face, which would have been a child’s face, a nymph’s face, with level brows, a pure straight profile, and small close ears like shells, was so fleshless and sunburnt that she looked almost like a mummy.  Her eyes had in them the surprise and sadness of those of a weaning calf; and her hair, too abundant for such a small head, would, had it not been so dusty and entangled, have been of a read golden bronze, the hue of a chestnut which has just burst open its green husk.

“Who are you?” said the young man, looking at her in surprise.

“I am Nerina,” answered the child.

“Where do you come from?  What is your country?”

She pointed vaguely to the south-west mountains, where the snow on the upper ranges was still lying with bands of cloud resting on it.

“From the Abruzzo?”

She was silent.  She did not know the mountains of her birthplace by their names.

“Who was your father?” he asked, with some impatience.

“He was Black Fausto.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“He went down with the fair season to the Roman plain.”

He understood:  the man had no doubt been a labourer, one of those who descend in bands from the villages of the Abruzzo heights to plough, and mow, and sow, and reap, on the lands of the Castelli Romani; men who work in droves, and are fed and stalled in droves, as cattle are, who work all through the longest and hottest days in summer, and in the worst storms of winter; men who are black by the sun, are half naked, are lean and hairy and drip with continual sweat, but who take faithfully back the small wage they receive to where their women and children dwell in their mountain-villages.

“He went, you say?  Is he ill?  Does he work no longer?”

“He died last year.”

“Of what?”

She gave a hopeless gesture.  “Who knows?  He came back with a wolf in his belly, he said, always gnawing and griping, and he drank water all day and all night, and his face burned, and his legs were cold, and all of a sudden his jaw fell, and he spoke no more to us.  There are many of them who die like that after a hot season down in the plains.”