This was the only memory Costantino had preserved of his son. Years had gone by since then; yet he always imagined him flushed, tearful, with little violet eyes shining out from beneath the dark lashes. But he often pictured the future, when Malthineddu, grown to be big and strong, would drive the wagon, and ride the horse, and sow, and reap, and be the comfort and support of his mother. The prisoner constantly hoped that some day or other he would be cleared, and able to return to his home, but when at times this hope seemed to be more than usually vain, then his thoughts would instantly revert to the boy, and how he would be able to take his place in a way; thus his feeling for him was more a part of his love for Giovanna than that more selfish affection which is the result, often, of habit and propinquity. Now the boy was dead, and the dream shattered; the will of God be done. And Costantino, dwelling upon Giovanna's grief, suffered himself, acutely. When the _King of Spades_, accordingly, met his friend that day in the shadow of the sun-baked wall, he at once perceived that the other's grief was far more for his wife than for the loss of the child; nevertheless, his method of imparting comfort was to say banteringly: "Why, my dear fellow, if, as you say, the Lord has taken the innocent little soul back to himself, why do you take it so much to heart? It must be for his own good!" "Why must it?" said Costantino, his head drooping, and both arms hanging down with limp, open palms. "Why must he be better off? Simply because he was poor!" The _King of Spades_ happened to be in a philosophising mood. He explained, therefore, that poverty was not always a misfortune; nothing of the sort; it might at times be looked upon as a blessing, even an unqualified one! "There are many worse things than poverty," said he. "Reflect for a moment; your wife will become reconciled." "Oh! of course; she has the sun," said Costantino, clenching his hands. "This burning sun, and just how is it going to help her?" "Pff! pff! pff!" puffed the other, inflating his big, yellow cheeks. Then he grew thoughtful, and fell to examining the little finger of his right hand with minute attention. "Suppose," he said suddenly, "your wife were to marry again?" Costantino did not quite take in what he meant, but his arms stiffened instinctively. "I hardly should have thought," said he in a hurt tone, "that you would say such a thing as that." "Pff! pff! pff!" The ex-marshal swelled and puffed meditatively. Then, after a short pause, he began again: