And the child stopped and stood still, sobbing, a few steps from his father. Giuseppa approached. She had spied the watch chain, one end of which protruded from Fortunato’s shirt. “Who gave you that watch?” she asked in a harsh tone. “My cousin the adjutant.” Falcone seized the watch, and hurled it against a stone, breaking it into a thousand pieces. “Woman,” he said, “is this child mine?” Giuseppa’s brown cheeks turned a brick red. “What do you say, Mateo? Do you know who you’re talking to?” “Well, this child is the first of his race that ever did an act of treachery.” Fortunato’s sobs and hiccoughs redoubled in force, and Falcone still kept his lynx-eyes fastened on him. At last he struck the butt of his gun on the ground, then threw it over his shoulder again and started back toward the _maquis_, calling to Fortunato to follow him. The child obeyed. Giuseppa ran after Mateo and grasped his arm. “He is your son,” she said in a trembling voice, fixing her black eyes on her husband’s, as if to read what was taking place in his mind. “Let me alone,” replied Mateo, “I am his father.” Giuseppa embraced her son and entered her cabin, weeping. She fell on her knees before an image of the Virgin and prayed fervently. Meanwhile Falcone walked some two hundred yards along the path, and did not stop until they reached a narrow ravine into which he descended. He sounded the earth with the butt of his rifle, and found it soft and easy to dig. It seemed to him a suitable spot for his design. “Fortunato, go and stand by that big stone.” The child did what he ordered, then knelt. “Say your prayers.” “Father, father, don’t kill me!” “Say your prayers!” Mateo repeated, in a terrible voice. The child, stammering and sobbing, repeated the _Pater_ and the _Credo_. The father, in a loud voice, said _Amen!_ at the end of each prayer. “Are those all the prayers you know?” “I know the _Ave Maria_, too, father, and the litany my aunt taught me.” “That’s very long, but no matter.” The child finished the litany in a feeble voice. “Have you finished?” “Oh, father! mercy! forgive me! I won’t do it again! I will pray so hard to my uncle the _caporal_ that he’ll forgive Gianetto!” He continued to speak; Mateo had cocked his gun, and he took aim at him, saying: “May God forgive you!” The child made a desperate effort to rise and grasp his father’s knees; but he had not time. Mateo fired, and Fortunato fell stark dead. Without glancing at the body, Mateo returned to his house to fetch a spade, in order to bury his son. He had taken only a few steps, when he met Giuseppa, who was running after them, terrified by the report. “What have you done?” she cried. “Justice.” “Where is he?” “In the ravine. I am going to bury him. He died the death of a Christian; I will have a mass sung for him. Send word to my son-in-law Tiodoro Bianchi to come and live with us.” 1829. FOOTNOTES: