called up old memories in his mind.  His presence in attendance on the prefect sufficed to insure his recognition.  This was Barricini, the lawyer, mayor of Pietranera, who had come, with his two sons, to show the prefect what a ballata was.  It would be difficult exactly to describe what happened within Orso’s soul at that moment, but the presence of his father’s foe filled him with a sort of horror, and more than ever he felt inclined to yield to the suspicions with which he had been battling for so long.

As to Colomba, when she saw the man against whom she had sworn a deadly hatred, her mobile countenance assumed a most threatening aspect.  She turned pale, her voice grew hoarse, the line she had begun to declaim died on her lips.  But soon, taking up her ballata afresh, she proceeded with still greater vehemence.

“When the hawk bemoans himself . . . beside his harried nest, . . . the starlings flutter round him . . . insulting his distress.”

A smothered laugh was heard.  The two young men who had just come in doubtless considered the metaphor too bold.

“The falcon will rouse himself. . . .  He will spread his wings. . . .  He will wash his beak in blood! . . .  Now, to thee, Carlo-Battista, let thy friends . . . bid an eternal farewell! . . .  Long enough have their tears flowed! . . .  Only the poor orphan girl will not weep for thee! . . .  Wherefore should she moan? . . .  Thou has fallen asleep, full of years, . . in the midst of thine own kin . . . ready to appear . . . in the presence of the Almighty. . . .  The orphan weeps for her father . . . overtaken by vile murderers, . . struck from behind. . . .  For her father, whose blood lies red . . . beneath the heaped-up green leaves. . . .  But she has gathered up this blood, . . this innocent and noble blood! . . .  She has poured it out over Pietranera . . . that it may become a deadly poison. . . .  And the mark shall be on Pietranera . . . until the blood of the guilty . . . shall have wiped out the blood of the innocent man!”

As Colomba pronounced the last words, she dropped into a chair, drew her mezzaro over her face, and was heard sobbing beneath it.  The weeping women crowded round the improvisatrice; several of the men were casting savage glances at the mayor and his sons; some of the elders began to protest against the scandal to which their presence had given rise.  The dead man’s son pushed his way through the throng, and was about to beg the mayor to clear out with all possible speed.  But this functionary had not waited for the suggestion.  He was on his way to the door, and his two sons were already in the street.  The prefect said a few words of condolence to young Pietri, and followed them out, almost immediately.  Orso went to his sister’s side, took her arm, and drew her out of the room.

“Go with them,” said young Pietri to some of his friends.  “Take care no harm comes to them!”