The woman Pietri dropped her burden, ran up the path, and found Colonel della Rebbia, bathed in his own blood from two bullet wounds, but still breathing.  Close beside him lay his gun, loaded and cocked, as if he had been defending himself against a person who had attacked him in front, just when another had struck him from behind.  Although the rattle was in his throat, he struggled against the grip of death, but he could not utter a word—­this the doctors explained by the nature of the wounds, which had cut through his lungs:  the blood was choking him, it flowed slowly, like red froth.  In vain did the woman lift him up, and ask him several questions.  She saw plainly enough that he desired to speak, but he could not make himself understood.  Noticing that he was trying to get his hand to his pocket, she quickly drew out of it a little note-book, which she opened and gave to him.

The wounded man took the pencil out of the note-book and tried to write.  In fact, the witness saw him form several letters, but with great difficulty.  As she could not read, however, she was unable to understand their meaning.  Exhausted by the effort, the colonel left the note-book in the woman’s hand, which he squeezed tightly, looking at her strangely, as if he wanted to say (these are the witness’s own words):  “It is important—­it is my murderer’s name!”

Maddalena Pietri was going up to the village, when she met Barricini, the mayor, with his son Vincentello.  It was then almost dark.  She told them what she had seen.  The mayor took the note-book, hurried up to his house, put on his sash, and fetched his secretary and the gendarmes.  Left alone with young Vincentello, Maddalena Pietri suggested that he should go to the colonel’s assistance, in case he was still alive, but Vincentello replied that if he were to go near a man who had been the bitter enemy of his family, he would certainly be accused of having killed him.  A very short time afterward the mayor arrived, found the colonel dead, had the corpse carried away, and drew up his report.

In spite of the agitation so natural on such an occasion, Monsieur Barricini had hastened to place the colonel’s note-book under seal, and to make all the inquiries in his power, but none of them resulted in any discovery of importance.

When the examining magistrate arrived the note-book was opened, and on a blood-stained page were seen letters written in a trembling hand, but still quite legible; the sheet bore the word Agosti—­and the judge did not doubt that the colonel had intended to point out Agostini as his murderer.  Nevertheless, Colomba della Rebbia, who had been summoned by the magistrate, asked leave to examine the note-book.  After turning the leaves for a few moments, she stretched out her hand toward the mayor and cried, “There stands the murderer!” Then with a precision and a clearness which were astonishing, considering the passion of sorrow that shook her, she related that,