There had been various agents of the Gandolfi there since that memorable day a hundred years before when the cavalry of Murat had encamped in Le Selve; a day that was still talked of over the oak logs in winter evenings as freshly as though it had been last winter. They had been men who had cheated their lords and wrung blood out of a post, but just because they had been thieves and hypocrites, they had winked at many evil deeds, and had never interfered with the ways and beliefs, the robberies and stabbings, the family feuds and drunken brawls of the country people. It had been their interest to shut their eyes to all which did not concern the fillings of their own leathern money-bags, and nod in mute condonation; and they had done so. One of them, indeed, had been shot dead as he stood at his bedroom window with the moonlight full upon him; and another had been knived as he had ridden home from a fair; but on the whole they had been let alone and not disliked. They had been men of the province, _dei nostri_; and that fact covers a multitude of sins. No one of these stewards would have gone to see the old peasant on his death-bed, and made a fuss about his being left alone, and have accompanied his corpse to its burial. They would have sent a barrel of good wine to the survivors to make merry with after the funeral, and would never have asked where the body was buried or what respect had been shown to it. Moreover, they had been men of the people, who had known at most bookkeeping by double entry, and something of cattle and forestry; this northerner talked of trees and plants as though they were living creatures with wills of their own; pretended that the roots of an oak corresponded in size and shape with its branches, that its leaves were its lungs, and all sorts of similar trash; he was never drunk, he never swore, he kissed his horse on the forehead, he bathed in running streams, he never made love to their daughters, he wanted to open a school for the woodlanders’ children, and he had heathenish books and devilish instruments in his rooms of which they caught appalling glimpses. His employers had sent him a compass, a chronometer, an aneroid, and a telescope with some globes and atlases from Rome, and even his friend Caterina, who in a year and a half had grown to believe him a harmless and even lovable person, could not see these objects without horror, and she had begged to be allowed to bring over the vicar from San Vitale to exorcise them. She was a stout, good-natured, handsome, old woman, who had been born on the Gandolfo lands, and had lived on them all her life; a good cook in her own limited, coarse fashion, and a bustling, spirited directress of the lads and lasses about the house.