In one home alone was there sign of life. Like the others, this hut was but one story high; but the stones were better laid, the door was wider and higher, and against the broad, square building that formed the dwelling proper were supported various sheds, lean-tos stalls, and a well-bricked oven. Before the door of the house stood a group of packed horses, from whose noses a young lad was tugging away at the empty meal-bags, while from the house came six or seven armed men out into the mist and hastily got their horses ready. As they started, a very old dog that was lying near the door waved his tail in a leisurely fashion; then he lifted himself wearily from the ground and swung slowly into the hut, where the fire was still burning brightly. By the hearth stood his mistress, facing the fire, her straight figure motionless, her arms hanging down by her hips. As the dog touched her hand with his soft nose, she turned, startled out of a reverie. “Fuoco,” she said, “poor dog, you are sick!” The dog whined and moved his tail gratefully. Then he crept near to the hearth onto an old hide and stretched himself there, coughing and moaning. In the mean time some of the servants had come in and seated themselves around the great table before the empty platters which the departing contrabbandieri had just left. An old maid-servant now filled them again with polenta from the great kettle, and taking her own platter sat down with the others. As they ate, not a word was spoken; the fire crackled, the dog moaned hoarsely in his sleep, the grave young girl sat down on the stone slab of the hearth, leaving untouched the small plate of polenta which the maid had placed before her, and gazed about the hall, lost in self-forgetfulness. The mist was now standing before the door like a white wall. But behind the edge of the crags the half-moon rose clear into the heavens. Up the street came a sound like the beating of hoofs and footsteps. “Pietro!” called the young mistress of the house in a quiet, reminding tone. A tall fellow rose quickly from the table and disappeared into the fog. The footsteps and voices were now heard coming nearer; at length the horse stopped before the hut. Still a little while and three men appeared under the doorway and entered with a curt “good evening.” Pietro approached the young woman who was gazing without interest into the fire. “They are two men from Porretta,” he said to her, “without any merchandise; they are guiding a signor over the mountains, whose passport is not in order.” “Nina!” called the young woman. The old serving-maid got up and came toward the hearth. “It isn’t that they only want to eat, padrona,” continued the fellow. “Maybe the signor can have a night’s lodging, too. He wishes to go no farther before daybreak.” “Make up a straw bed for him in the lean-to.” Pietro nodded and went back to the table.