“Then is there something inside your wallet that attracts them?” said Orso.

“Nothing.  But if I were to write to a rich man, as some people have written, ‘I want a hundred francs,’ he would lose no time about sending them to me.  But I’m a man of honour, monsieur.”

“Do you know, Signor della Rebbia,” said the bandit whom his comrade called the cure, “do you know that in this country, with all its simple habits, there are some wretches who make use of the esteem our passports” (and he touched his gun) “insure us, to draw forged bills in our handwriting?”

“I know it,” said Orso, in a gruff tone; “but what bills?”

“Six months ago,” said the bandit, “I was taking my walks abroad near Orezza, when a sort of lunatic came up to me, pulling off his cap to me even in the distance, and said:  ‘Oh, M. le Cure’ (they always call me that), ’please excuse me—­give me time.  I have only been able to get fifty-five francs together!  Honour bright, that’s all I’ve been able to scrape up.’  I, in my astonishment, said, ’Fifty-five francs!  What do you mean, you rascal!’ ‘I mean sixty-five,’ he replied; ’but as for the hundred francs you asked me to give you, it’s not possible.’  ’What! you villain!  I ask you for a hundred francs?  I don’t know who you are.’  Then he showed me a letter, or rather a dirty rag of paper, whereby he was summoned to deposit a hundred francs on a certain spot, on pain of having his house burned and his cows killed by Giocanto Castriconi—­that’s my name.  And they had been vile enough to forge my signature!  What annoyed me most was that the letter was written in patois, and was full of mistakes in spelling—­I who won every prize at the university!  I began by giving my rascal a cuff that made him twist round and round.  ’Aha!  You take me for a thief, blackguard that you are!’ I said, and I gave him a hearty kick, you know where.  Then feeling rather better, I went on, ’When are you to take the money to the spot mentioned in the letter?’ ‘This very day.’  ’Very good, then take it there!’ It was at the foot of a pine-tree, and the place had been exactly described.  He brought the money, buried it at the foot of the tree, and came and joined me.  I had hidden myself close by.  There I stayed, with my man, for six mortal hours, M. della Rebbia.  I’d have staid three days, if it had been necessary.  At the end of six hours a Bastiaccio, a vile money-lender, made his appearance.  As he bent down to take up the money, I fired, and I had aimed so well that, as he fell, his head dropped upon the coins he was unearthing.  ‘Now, rascal,’ said I to the peasant, ’take your money, and never dare to suspect Giocanto Castriconi of a mean trick again!’

“The poor devil, all of a tremble, picked up his sixty-five francs without taking the trouble to wipe them.  He thanked me, I gave him a good parting kick, and he may be running away still, for all I know.”

“Ah, cure!” said Brandolaccio, “I envy you that shot!  How you must have laughed!”