“What they call rights are not rights,” said Muriella. “They are wicked, thievish, knavish ways. They should be grateful for all your gentleman does for them. He is merciful and just. They should rejoice.” Caterina gave a short gruff laugh like an owl’s hoot. “A clear cloudless night is a nice thing,” she answered, “but when a man is going to tryst with a neighbour’s wife, or waiting with his knife to avenge an old grudge, he likes a murky night better, doesn’t he, my dear? Ways are crooked, and plunder has been easy got in Le Selve. No one of the woodlanders wants to be set straight. Each one likes to crawl on his belly and go crooked as he chooses. Your uncles as much as any.” “That I know,” said Muriella. “But to crawl on the belly is for snakes, not men.” “Fine words, my dear, but they’ll cost you heavy,” answered the old woman. “Look after yourself, child; you’ll find that enough to do. I don’t like Faustone’s hot look at you. He is a lewd fellow, and stands pledged to wed with a wench in Montefiascone come next Easter.” Muriella smiled slightly. “Messir Faustone may look as he likes, and wed when he wishes. He will not trouble my peace, be sure.” “Best that nobody should,” said Caterina. “You should leave those bad men you belong to, and marry,” she added. Muriella shook her head. “Not I.” “Why not?” said Caterina. “There are only two things for a woman to choose between--the nuptial bed or the convent cell; and you are not one for a convent life, my wench.” “Nor yet one to be a man’s beast of burden,” said the girl. “It is a cow’s life; for ever yoked to the plough, though pregnant and in pain; for ever toiling over the furrows, though with udders throbbing and aching in milk. Not for me! Not for me! Death sooner!” “There are good men to be had,” said Caterina, not very firmly nor with much conviction. “Not in these woods,” said Muriella; “and even were one of our men good, what could he do? His woman is his for his pleasure and her pain, like the cow in the yoke.” “’Tis nature,” said Caterina. “I do not say otherwise,” replied Muriella, and she leant her arms on her knees and her cheeks on her hands, and looked into the fire. Nature was rude and rough, brutal and ugly, in its human shapes; only beautiful in its trees, in its waters, in its clouds. She did not know much, she could not read a line, she had never been out of the woods, but she could read human faces and human hearts, and she generally found what she read in them to be as foul as the forest swamps, where the newts and the adders lived, and the night-shade hung over the slime. Caterina went on with her spinning by the light of the three-wicked brass lamps. “If you won’t marry, I do not see what can become of you,” she said with some severity. Muriella smiled. “I am a good worker; I can earn my day’s wage any time anywhere. I would go away to-morrow, but I am loth to leave the woods. They are like father and mother, child and cradle, to me.”