Her dark blue eyes fixed themselves keenly on the sight, and the pupils grew wide and angry. The cart was a hundred yards away, coming up the road, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and drawn by one wretched mule. The huge carter was sprawling on the front sacks, yelling a tuneless chant at the top of his voice. He was a black-haired man, with a hideous mouth, and his face was red with wine. As he yelled his song he flogged his miserable beast with a heavy whip, accenting his howls with cruel blows. Clare grew pale with anger as she came nearer and saw it all more distinctly. The mule's knees bent nearly double at every violent step, its wide eyes were bright red all round, its white tongue hung out, and it gasped for breath. The road was stony, too, besides being steep, for it had been lately mended and not rolled. "Brute!" exclaimed Clare, in a low voice, and her face grew paler. Johnstone said nothing, and his face did not change as they advanced. "Don't you see?" cried the young girl. "Can't you do anything? Can't you stop him?" "Oh yes. I think I can do that," answered Brook indifferently. "It is rather rough on the mule." "Rough! It's brutal, it's beastly, it's cowardly, it's perfectly inhuman!" At that moment the unfortunate animal stumbled, struggled to recover itself as the lash descended pitilessly upon its thin flanks, and then fell headlong and tumbled upon its side. The heavy cart pulled back, half turning, so that the shafts were dragged sideways across the mule, whose weight prevented the load from rolling down hill. The carrier stopped singing and swore, beating the beast with all his might, as it lay still gasping for breath. "Ah, assassin! Ah, carrion! I will teach thee! Curses on the dead of thy house!" he roared. Brook and Clare were coming nearer. "That's not very intelligent of the fellow," observed Johnstone indifferently. "He had much better get down." "Oh, stop it, stop it!" cried the young girl, suffering acutely for the helpless creature. But the man had apparently recognised the impossibility of producing any impression unless he descended from his perch. He threw the whip to the ground and slid off the sacks. He stood looking at the mule for a moment, and then kicked it in the back with all his might. Then, just as Johnstone and Clare came up, he went round to the back of the cart, walking unsteadily, for he was evidently drunk. The two stopped by the parapet and looked on. "He's going to unload," said Johnstone. "That's sensible, at all events." The sacks, as usual in Italy, were bound to the cart by cords, which were fast in front, but which wound upon a heavy spindle at the back. The spindle had three holes in it, in which staves were thrust as levers, to turn it and hold the ropes taut. Two of the staves were tightly pressed against the load, while the third stood nearly upright in its hole.