Then San Pantaleone fell on the pavement, with a sharp, vibrant ring.  As Giacobbe dashed forward to pick him up, a big devil of a man dealt him a blow with a bill-hook, which stretched him out on his back.  Twice he rose and twice was struck down again.  Blood covered his face, his breast, his hands, yet he persisted in getting up.  Enraged by this ferocious tenacity of life, three, four, five clumsy peasants together stabbed him furiously in the belly, and the fanatic fell over, with the back of his neck against the silver bust.  He turned like a flash and put his face against the metal, with his arms outspread and his legs drawn up.  And San Pantaleone was lost.

IT SNOWS

BY

ENRICO CASTELNUOVO

The Translation by Edith Wharton.

The thermometer marks barely one degree above freezing, the sky is covered with ominous white clouds, the air is harsh and piercing; what can induce Signor Odoardo, at nine o’clock on such a morning, to stand in his study window?  It is true that Signor Odoardo is a vigorous man, in the prime of life, but it is never wise to tempt Providence by needlessly risking one’s health.  But stay—­I begin to think that I have found a clue to his conduct.  Opposite Signor Odoardo’s window is the window of the Signora Evelina, and Signora Evelina has the same tastes as Signor Odoardo.  She too is taking the air, leaning against the window-sill in her dressing-gown, her fair curls falling upon her forehead and tossed back every now and then by a pretty movement of her head.  The street is so narrow that it is easy to talk across from one side to the other, but in such weather as this the only two windows that stand open are those of Signora Evelina and Signor Odoardo.

There is no denying the fact:  Signora Evelina, who within the last few weeks has taken up her abode across the way, is a very fascinating little widow.  Her hair is of spun gold, her skin of milk and roses, her little turned-up nose, though assuredly not Grecian, is much more attractive than if it were; she has the most dazzling teeth in the most kissable mouth; her eyes are transparent as a cloudless sky, and—­well, she knows how to use them.  Nor is this the sum total of her charms:  look at the soft, graceful curves of her agile, well-proportioned figure; look at her little hands and feet!  After all, one hardly wonder that Signor Odoardo runs the risk of catching his death of cold, instead of closing the window and warming himself at the stove which roars so cheerfully within.  It is rather at Signora Evelina that I wonder; for, though Signer Odoardo is not an ill-looking man, he is close upon forty, while she is but twenty-four.  So young, and already a widow—­poor Signora Evelina!  It is true that she has great strength of character; but six months have elapsed since her husband’s death, and she is resigned to it already,