“Would the Sor Comandante know the truth?” Zenobia shot a basilisk glance at Pietro. “The animal was not being used. Sor Pietro himself said it was too miserably weak to draw the plough. He had no use for him, nor will have till it is time to gather his lemons and take them to the Marina. Should he deny this poor miserable brute when my officers, the magnanimous, the Heaven-sent, demand such an animal? He deserves to die of an apoplexy!” At this moment an orderly brought a letter to Brofferio. As he turned to read it, Zenobia sprang like a panther at Pietro, caught him by the shoulder, shook him like a sack, and hissed in his deaf ear: “Ingrate, cabbage head, hangman!” “You have received a very large sum of money this morning,” said Brofferio, folding up his letter, “fully fifteen francs. Do me the favor to pay this man five sous. How many times hath she borrowed the _asino_? Five sous for each trip. Now then!” Zenobia produced a soiled and knotted handkerchief from her stocking and counted the money unwillingly into Pietro’s seamy brown palm. “Now I wonder,” said Brofferio, as the pair walked amicably away together, “if that comedy was all arranged beforehand?” * * * * * The early days at Mosella recall the description of the building of Carthage. The busy master-carpenters, each with his foot-rule in his pocket, his blue pencil behind his ear, move about among the gangs of Sicilian laborers. One measures out on the bare ground the place where the timbers that form the sills of the next house shall be laid; another directs the driver of a heavy ox-team, drawn by a pair of sturdy red steers, where to discharge a load of fragrant new cut pine boards. At noon work comes to a halt. Francesco taps at the office door and announces: “Dinny ready, Mister!” Francesco is a Sicilian of the Greek type, straight as a lance, with a fine head, thick curling hair and eyes of gray sapphire. He escaped unhurt from his house the morning after the earthquake, after lying for hours under the ruins. At dinner Belknap sits at the head of the long table; on his right is Brofferio. Then seated in the order of their rank come the officers, the “architect,” as they call J., and the master-carpenters. The table is laid with neatness--for a camp, with elegance. There is a white table-cloth with napkins, borrowed from the “Celtic;” at either end stands a bowl filled with pale quince blossoms, wreathed with ivy--winding ivy besprent with purple berries, the kind that twined the bacchantes’ thyrsus. This is Gasperone’s idea, the touch of the æsthetic, the legacy of Hellas, that every day and every hour you see in Sicily, that makes this land and its people rich in grace beyond all others. “Them flowers looks kinder pretty,” said Timothy, the carpenter. He made a mental note to write his wife about Gasperone’s decoration of the “mess” table.