Rocco and Sidora: A Calabrian Story

I.

IN the village, that afternoon, they had left off work. Even the men who were building the new part of the baron’s house were gone with the other people to meet the lads — among these, their companion Rocco d’ Andrea, the mason — who were on their return from the military draft at Paola. The syndic. don Calogero Motta; the town clerk, mastro Pasquale Bevilacqua; don Filippo Tesa, the apothecary, — all the big pieces, one might say, — were assembled in the piazza, waiting to learn who had drawn the low numbers, and who the high ones.

Near the well stood the women in a group, — the mammas, the wives, the sisters, and the young girls. Don Saverio, the curate, moved among them, trying to encourage, to repress, to calm, all those anxieties and fears. Some of the women wished to hear their fate beforehand from zia Caterina, who had the fame of a witch, and Could tell fortunes with grains of wheat in a basin of water, and cure sick fowls, and avert the evil eye, and — though this she denied — knew how to make philters and charms. This time she would only say, “Those that the king wants will go to be soldiers, and those that he does not take can stay at home.”

Nothing could be learned from her nor from don Saverio, who went about repeating, “ Patience, my daughters ; we must have patience.”

With zia Caterina was her granddaughter, Sidora, who would have given the gold hoops out of her ears to know that Rocco d’ Andrea had drawn a favorable number. But when the girls who were already betrothed said proudly, “If Maso mio goes, the king will have a fine soldier, strong as a Turk, ” or, “I have made a vow to San Francesco that he may do me the grace of a good number for Carmelo, ” the poor Sidora could say nothing, because Rocco had not yet dared to ask the grandmother for her.

The young men had gone down to Paola the day before, and would return that afternoon. The mothers and the sweethearts, who meanwhile had moved about as if in a dream, with hearts bursting with fear that the king would take their lads, with the sight of uniforms and bayonets always before their eyes, and the blood beating like a kettledrum in their ears, — these would soon know how things had gone at Paola.

Finally the noise of wheels was heard at the turn of the road, and there came the strong bay mules of compare Vito, the carrier. He sat with his legs stretched upon the shafts, letting the beasts take their own pace. Some of the women crossed themselves. Rocco’s mother, comare Grazia d’ Andrea, white as a washed rag, ran forward with her arms in the air.

“Give me news of my son, compare Vito! ”

Sidora felt suffocated; she wrung her small hands under her apron.

“And my son Maso, compare Vito! ”

“For the sake of your dead, Vito, tell me about my Vincenzo! ”

“And Cola Scardelli! ”

They were about him, pulling at his sleeves as he got down from the cart.

“ Let me speak, blessed women! Cola stays at home after the forty days of the second category, and Vincenzo has drawn an ugly number, and Maso can remain to dance with comare Nennella; and you, gnà Rosaria, must wait for your third husband until he has done military service, while massaro Vanni Sciorsi can count upon his son for the chestnuts.”

“And my Rocco! ” insisted the mother.

“Rocco has to be a soldier,” answered compare Vito, grinning.

Comare Grazia waited for nothing more; she turned, covered her face with her hands, and went weeping into her house. Don Saverio followed her, trying to comfort her with holy words which, to her with that anguish in her heart, might have been so much Latin.

Hardly was the mother at a distance : “A rabbit, that fellow! ” exclaimed compare Vito.

“How, a rabbit ? ” asked the people.

“Which is to say ?” inquired don Calogero.

One saw that compare Vito was bursting with desire to tell the facts.

“A real rabbit, perbacco! ” he repeated.

The poor Sidora became red and pale by turns. What was she to hear, she who had no right to open her mouth to defend Rocco, not even if things of all colors were said about him ?

“ Explain yourself, ” said the syndic.

“ Speak,” added the town clerk.

“ What has he done? ”

“ Su, su! tell us about him, Vito.”

They pulled him this way and that, while he, in order to make himself precious, took out his pocket handkerchief, blew his nose, shook his head, wiped some mud from the shoulder of one of the mules, sighed, and ran his eye over the crowd as if to count his hearers. Then, with thumbs in his waistcoat, he began at his ease.

“ We all went yesterday to Paola, some on foot and some in a cart.”

“ So much we know.”

“ Then tell the story yourselves.”

“ Ah, Vito benedetto, say on.”

“ It you let me speak. There were the lads for the conscription, and also we others who went for our business. As for me, I don’t say it for sake of talking, I had to carry some big casks to don Cosimo Mastrangelo ” —

“ An apoplexy on your casks! ” The syndic had, as the saying is, a fly on his nose, and Vito judged it prudent to come to the facts.

“ There was a great crowd. Behind the table sat the syndic of Paola, and the clerk, and the brigadier, and a captain, and two young lieutenants so handsome that they appeared like sons of an emperor, all silver braid and pointed mustaches; and upon the wall the portrait of King Umberto, that smiled as if to give courage to the boys; and the urn stood there on the table, full of the fate of the poor fellows who, one by one, went to draw a billet ; while We and others who had lads there, or were curious, pressed against the wicket like so many sheep. The numbers came as Heaven willed, the good and the bad. It was ‘Viva San Francesco! ’ or ‘ Poor me! ’ according to the case. There were also those who took it in holy peace. But compare Rocco ” — Here Vito interrupted himself, shrugged his shoulders and coughed solemnly, in order to be entreated.

“ Onward, compare Vito !”

“ Eh, dispatch! ”

“ Let him tell it in his own way.”

“ And it is for this that I say that compare Rocco has the heart of a rabbit: when it was his turn he muttered some ejaculation, perhaps to San Francesco, then stretched forth his hand and withdrew it again. ‘Here ’s a simpleton, ’ said the signor brigadiere. ‘ Eh! put in your hand, ’ said one of those fine lieutenants; ‘there are no serpents inside; animo! ’ So, in order not to make a poor figure, Rocco, red as a tomato, drew a number. ‘Let us see, my good fellow, ’ says that lieutenant. And behold a bad number, 13! ‘Ah, Judas of a number! ’ howls Rocco. ‘Ah, San Ciccu mio, the bad turn that you ’ve played me! You have betrayed me, after that banner which I carried last year at your festival, that weighed like an uprooted oak. Beast of a saint! ’ They wished to silence him, but he bellowed like a calf. ‘Mamma mia! They will kill me.’ ‘And you break our heads with your noise,’ said the brigadier, and ordered two carabineers to take compare Rocco by the shoulders and put him out of the door. ‘Look out that you don’t hurt him, ’ recommended that lieutenant. ‘Sometimes those who cry out the most at first, later become excellent soldiers.’

“Outside, with us that formed a group around him, compare Rocco vented his anger. ‘Judas of a number! Oh, why did I not get it astrologized by zia Caterina, that I might have cut off my forefinger in time! Ah, San Ciccu mio, you would have me dead ! ’ Then mastro Nunzio Bacigalupo, who had served in the army, would make him believe that one wasn’t so badly off there. But he shook his head, and would not hear reason. ‘In military life,’ he lamented, ‘one wears out body and soul.’ He had heard tell of it, — how the superiors treat you worse than a dog, and if every time that they kick you behind you don’t say, ‘ So many thanks,’ they put you in prison, and you have black bread and that wine which is squeezed from the clouds; and if you lose a button off your jacket, quick, the prison again; and if you can no more of it and try to run away, platoon, fire! And there you are, laid out cold, with bullets in your back.

“Mastro Nunzio kept repeating to him that it was not true, it was not true; on the contrary, it is a very fine thing to serve his Majesty, to make one’s self liked by the superiors, to learn at the regimental schools how to read and write, to see a little of the world beyond the bell-tower of one’s own town; then to come home, marry a good girl, set up a family, and show one’s self a serious man. ‘And meanwhile, ’t is the risk of my skin, ’ objected compare Rocco. Then somebody said that there would be the medical visit; perhaps he would be judged defective. Neither did this please compare Rocco, who cried, ‘My mother’s son can call himself strong as a wolf! I have good sight and hearing, and a chest twice that of another man, ’ and he beat his breast with his fists, and began to bellow again, ‘Amaru iu! that I must go for a soldier! ’ So much noise he made that none of us thought whether the draft was finished until the galantuomini came out, and that lieutenant approached and said. ‘ Ohè, Rocco d’ Andrea! You look to me like a fine brigand of a lad. You put so much good will into howling that I ’m disposed to believe that you can be taught other things, too.' ‘Gnursì,’ says Rocco, ‘gnursì, signor tinintieddu, I do what I can.’ ‘So it appears, ’said the officer, and went away laughing.”

At this moment, some urchins who had climbed a tree called out that the fellows were coming. The women who had listened to compare Vito’s story now thought each of her own case, and ran, weeping or laughing, or both together, to meet the lads. The people gave way to the mayor and the town clerk, who walked solemnly in front, followed by the others like a flock of sheep. The young men approached, moving up the mountain road in a company, with a regular step, as if they already felt themselves soldiers, singing a march. Among them was Rocco, whose scare had passed as it came, his head high, singing with the chorus.

Why, he wondered, did people smile at seeing him? It would be because he was going for a soldier. And, proud as a cock, he approached comare Sidora, who turned her shoulders to him, and then ran off to her own house, He followed her, but she slammed the door, and then the window shutters, in his face; leaving him, as the saying is, with a palm’s length of nose. “Oh, comare Sidora, what harm have I done to you? ” cried Rocco.

Some young women, walking abreast, — that chatterbox Barbara Scardelli, and the daughters of mastro Bacigalupo, and Nennella Sciorsi, a saucy little girl, the size of a pennyworth of cheese, — began to laugh at him, at compare Rocco, who in a fortnight was going to serve the king. His mother, comare Grazia, came in haste, waddling like a fat duck; she threw herself on the neck of her son, and led him away to her house. Little by little the crowd dispersed: some gathered at the apothecary’s shop and at the tavern of mistress Rosaria; the masons returned to the baron’s wall, where soon were heard the strokes of the trowels.

Rocco d’ Andrea, after a while, came there in his working-clothes to put a hand to it with the others. He wished to play the bravo, singing at the top of his voice, on purpose to make himself heard by comare Sidora, in the house near the new wall of the baron. She, however, would not hear out of that ear, but instead made a great noise with her loom. For all that, Rocco sang the song which so well expressed their case, dragging the last note of each verse so that it appeared like the howl of a vagrant dog. He had to sing alone: the voice of Sidora that was accustomed to reply to his was lacking. That song was so dear to him!

But when, the day’s work ended, the masons went home to supper, the poor Rocco could not flatter himself that comare Sidora had listened to him, so that the minestra which he ate had no relish.

The new walls which were being built at the house of the baron were for the rooms of the baronello, don Luigino, just returned from his studies in Naples. In order to keep his son ill the village, the baron would content him in everything, — horses, dogs, the new chambers which were to be furnished in the style of the great cities. The old lord himself preferred the large empty rooms in which he had always lived; his wife thought of nothing hut her ailments and her religion. Donna Basilissa, the cousin of the baroness, who in thirty-eight years that she had not found a husband was turned to vinegar, was housekeeper and kept, the servants in order. She sometimes made a sweet little eye at her young cousin, don Luigino; and then Gennariello, his Neapolitan servant, would wink at the cook or the housemaid and observe, “Too mature, that one! ” Meanwhile, don Luigino considered her like a second mother, who never let his shirts lack buttons, and always put on the table his favorite dishes.

Superintending the work of the wall, the baronello had more than once seen comare Sidora in the very narrow strip of land that there was between her house and the new structure. There she tended some plants, rosemary and basil and pansies and carnation pinks, which she watered at morning and at evening, stirring the earth around them, and removing the worms that disputed them with her. Sometimes the baronello threw down bits of mortar from the wall, to make her look at him. Then he would bid good-day to his neighbor, and more than once he said to her, “If I were down there, would you give me a pink for my buttonhole ? ” She said neither yes nor no, but the back of her neck, bent over the plants, grew rosy.

One day Rocco d’ Andrea chanced to see and hear these things, and said within himself, “Here’s the reason that comare Sidora will not talk with me more than with a dog! May these stones that I lay be for the tomb of that renegade Turk of a don Luigino! A fortune for him if I don’t crack his head with my trowel! One of these days, I ’ll make split herring of baptized flesh.”

Thus Rocco, who really had such a good heart he would not have hurt a fly.

Another day, afterward, Rocco, from the top of the building, Saw the baronello sitting astride of the low wall that divided the land of the palazzo from that little bit of garden. He talked in a low voice, laughing a little; he had in his hands some cakes which he offered to Sidora. She, on her knees, was pulling up weeds, and did not say a word. Rocco, in order to see, nearly lost his equilibrium; but, as Heaven willed, at that moment the shrill voice of the old woman, inside the house, called Sidora, and the girl went in at once. “This time, it has really been San Ciccu benedetto who has put in a hand for me that I might not commit a mortal sin, ” judged Rocco.

But these things gave him matter for thought. Since that afternoon when comare Sidora had slammed the door on his mustache he had not been able to talk with her; in the streets or at the well, she always had at her skirts that little imp of a Nennella Sciorsi, her intimate, friend, black as a peppercorn, and as biting, so that one could not have the occasion to explain himself with her. At other times she was at work in the house, or off on the mountain tending a few goats. Formerly, that is to say before the time of the military draft, comare Sidora, inside the house, would sing whatever tune was dictated to her by the song of Rocco d ’ Andrea; and when she came to the door to throw away cabbagestalks and onion-peels there were always exchanged some words of the sort that lovers use, and that mean much or little according to who hears them. Now everything was changed. Rocco could not give himself a reason why, for he had a head that was not made for a lawyer’s. It did not enter his mind that Sidora’s displeasure should be on account of his resistance to the levy; in fact, he had thought little about that blunder of his. Some of the masons and others had begun to jeer at him for it, but he had answered honestly, “I was an ass; but in future I shall do my duty. ” And because there is no juice in teasing a person of that sort, and also because it was known that Rocco, though he was by no means one to seek a quarrel, had solid fists, they soon let him alone.

“With the aid of San Francesco, I 'll make an end to this torment before I go for a soldier, ” Rocco resolved.

So one evening he stayed later than the other masons, with the pretext of smoothing a part of the structure while the mortar was still fresh. When they were gone away, he came down the ladder and seated himself upon the low wall, so that his homespun fustian trousers occupied just the place of those broadcloth ones of the baronello, and awaited Sidora. She came out of the house with a bit of broken pottery in her hand to stir the earth round the roots of her plants ; when she perceived compare Rocco, she would have gone back, but he called her in a tone that she could not resist,

“Come, Sidora bella, come to tend your plants. If I am an inconvenience, I ’ll go away. But in these days you hide yourself like a sparrow in the woods, so that one cannot say two little words to you. Must so much love end this way? If I have offended you, comare Sidora, you need not send me to Rome for a penance, for here I am like a soul of purgatory. Tell me, I pray you with clasped hands, tell me what harm I have done to you.”

His voice was as sweet as in former days; and comare Sidora, because of the habit of loving him, and by reason of the melancholy of the twilight and of the dew that drew out the odors of the herbs, did not know how to refuse to listen to him.

“How could I have harmed you,— I who would not twist a hair of yours ? For you appear to me a princess, a saint, and you can always command me. What have I done to you, then, comare Sidora? ” insisted Rocco.

“To me you have done nothing.” She sat on the ground, digging in the earth with the fragment of pottery. “To me, nothing at all, compare Rocco. ”

“Perhaps you have seen me look with rage at the signor baronello, who makes you so many compliments ? ”

“I don’t care for don Luigino, nor for his saint! ”

“Then why do you have it against me ? ”

Sidora was silent for a moment, and then broke forth: “Listen! It is because of that which you know, down there at Paola; because at the head of my bed there are hung, under the blessed olive branch, the likeness of my grandfather, good soul, who was a Garibaldino, and lost his right arm fighting, and died at seventy-five years old with the name of Italy in his mouth; and of my father, who also served in the army, and, if he did not see war, gave his life taking care of the people who had cholera at Messina. They look at me from the wall, those two! Rocco, I swear it to you, not even if my heart were to break, I dare not marry a lad whom, were they alive today. they would curse for having shown himself cowardly! ”

She turned aside her head. Compare Rocco, who had already brought both legs over to that side of the wall, in case peace were to be made, then and there jumped down into the basil, crushing it with his big feet.

“If it is so, comare Sidora, I have nothing more to say but good-night.”

And he went away, through the dooryard and into the street, while Sidora, crouching on the earth, wept hopelessly, alone there in the dusk. Everything was ended : all the years in which she and Rocco had cared for each other were passed away like smoke. When they were children, he had always defended her, if their companions threw it in her face that her grandmother was a witch, and said, “Look out that la Sidora doesn’t put the envy on you.” He, because he was a handsome, robust boy, had availed to make his little friend respected; whoever teased Sidora had to do with Rocco’s fists; and if he were attacked by one bigger than himself, Sidora Caught on to the shoulders of the enemy, and scratched him with holy reason, worse than a wildcat. Then the victorious allies would go off together to eat the blackberries among the rocks, or to seek mushrooms in the pastures. Later, Rocco and Sidora had not been so much in company; but when they met at church or in the piazza, it was a festival for them. Then Rocco began to come under her windows to sing, and danced with her oftener than with other girls. While he worked on the baron’s wall they had seen each other several times a day, and she had given him a red carnation pink. To the nonna they had said nothing, because she looked askance at Rocco, who had nothing but his trade, and had, moreover, his mother on his shoulders, who now would live with the family of his elder brother. Neither was comare Grazia content that her son should marry the granddaughter of the witch, without a penny of dowry, only the fir-wood chest and a mattress, to which the old woman would add some kettles and dishes, if ever she found a match that should please her for her beautiful Sidora, who was like the pupil of her eye.

The next day and the day after, Rocco and Sidora did not see each other. On that following, the conscripts went in a company down the road toward Paolu. The whole town came forth to say good-by to the brave boys; only Sidora stayed up on the mountain, and did not bring home her goats until twilight.

After a few days, compare Vito reported news of the conscripts. But of Rocco he said nothing particular, because, in fact, when one behaves well and does his duty there is little to tell about him.

II.

The winter past, March came to rejoice the fields. The rooms of the baronello were built, and awaited the return of don Luigino, who, with the permission of his father, had been some time in Naples, enjoying festivities and theatres. As soon as he came home he busied himself with the decoration of his apartment. Now and then he talked from the courtyard with his beautiful neighbor, who, finding him always kind, had not much awe of him. She was still angry with compare Rocco. In the long winter evenings she had thought over the matter, and it gnawed her soul. Heart of a rabbit he had shown himself also upon that occasion when she had reproached him, going away without a word to justify himself. If he had had a little courage, he would have silenced her; he would have conquered her, made her love him and many him despite herself and those two photographs under the blessed olive. Heart of a rabbit! She was quite of the opinion of compare Vito, whom, moreover, she hated precisely for that cause. So when don Luigino, who, instead of displeasures like those others, had for her only good little words and sweetmeats, sat on the low wall, it often happened that she stayed to talk with him. Meanwhile, nobody noticed that cousin Basilissa was growing always greener, for spite. The fact is that for many years her face had lacked the red and white of the Italian tricolor. She spied from the windows, and bore tales of the doings of don Luigino to his mother, who sent in haste to the druggist for a sedative, and to don Saverio, the curate, that he should come to give her spiritual consolations. She filled the ears of the holy man with complaints of that bold girl who was not ashamed to bind around the young baron with her affectations of a peasant flirt. This saddened the kind curate, who wished well to all his parish, and repeated, “It can’t be like that, signora baronessa. I will not believe ill of Sidora, whom I baptized with my own hands. ” But the baroness admitted no doubt, and said, “And if we have seen with our eyes, reverendo ? ”

So, with the approval of the curate and unknown to her own family, the baroness wrote to Naples to an old schoolmate, inviting her to bring her daughter to make a visit. The signorina Adelina Jeraci had made a certain impression upon don Luigino while he was studying in Naples. It would be necessary to drive in that, nail! The invitation was accepted; and one fine day, the baroness, who because of her neuralgia excused herself from all work, called cousin Basilissa, and recommended to her to have the two best chambers swept and aired, with clean sheets on the beds; for the next day would arrive two guests, the signora Jeraci and Adelina. It was like a thorn in the heart of donna Basilissa, who scented there a marriage for don Luigino, She dared not reply, because after all she lived on the charity of the baroness, and whoever holds the money can make the fasts and the feasts in the house.

Cousin Basilissa betook herself to the kitchen, where she baked some cakes, and scolded the cook and the scullion. She opened chests of drawers and chose sheets and pillow - cases, shaking the lavender angrily from the folds, and throwing the linen on the arm of the housemaid. The old baron smoked in his study, or went with the factor to look after the lands which master Sciorsi wanted to take on mezzadria, without disturbing himself about the guests who were to come. Don Luigino had gotten some new furniture and curtains from Naples, and with Gennariello ran about arranging them. After sunset, in order to take a mouthful of fresh air, the baronello went down into the courtyard and watched comare Sidora, who sat on a stone knitting in the twilight.

“Always at work, my little neighbor.”

“Gnursì, signor baronello. One must work in order to live.”

“That is true. Also I have been toiling like mastro Vanni’s donkey. I can tell you my arms are tired, moving furniture and driving nails. Very fine thing’ to work! ”

“And when you have a servant! ”

“That doesn’t count. I like to do things myself, sometimes. Do you know, I ’m bored until it seems to me that I shall die of yawning, or blow out my brains. Say, comarella, would you like to come in and see my new rooms ? ”

“ No, indeed, signor baronello.”

“ And why not? I’m not a wolf, to eat you. Are you afraid of me? Look at me in the eyes.”

Sidora raised her eyes, serious and a little troubled.

Don Luigino planted his hands on the low wall and leaped over it.

“ You ’re a good child, Sidora,” he said. “I won’t tease you.”

She was silent.

“On my soul, I meant no harm,” protested don Luigino, “and you please me the more because you know how to behave so well. You are as pretty as a wood-pigeon, and you sing like a nightingale. By the way, what’s the news from that big Rocco, the mason who split his throat singing up there on my wall ? ”

“ Of that Christian I don’t wish for any news.”

“A little spite, eh? The usual angers of lovers.”

“Nossignore, we are not lovers.”

“ Fine fellow, that Rocco ! ”

“ Do me the favor, your lordship, not to talk to me of him.”

“Ah, I comprehend. After the story that compare Vito told, —that about the levy.”

“ Also that Vito, I can’t see him! ”

“ So much the better. Say, comarella, you don’t detest me, too, perhaps ? ”

“ Too much liberty, don Luigino! ”

That caused the haronello a great laugh. Cousin Basilissa, who liked to clean things by candlelight, because the dust is better seen, came just then to the window. Hearing don Luigino laugh, she stood there as if of stone, as she later told his mamma, to see the haronello stoop, take Sidora by the chin and kiss her.

“ Now, good-night, my neighbor,” said he. “I tell you that I have not been bored this time.”

“ Holy night, signor baronello,” replied Sidora, as he leaped over the wall into the courtyard of the palazzo.

To Sidora all those words of don Luigino were like honey that took out of her mouth the bitter of the mortification caused her by Rocco d’ Andrea. The baronello was so kind, so handsome, so gay, just like a big boy. He had stood there beside her like any person whatever, without aristocracy. Her little heart heat: in all the nonna’s legends, it was always the poor girls who became the brides of the kings with crowns, and the lads without shoes who had the luck to marry the princesses. Who could know? And in that case, if also compare Rocco found for himself an emperor’s daughter who would have him, she, Sidora, would have great pleasure to dance at their wedding.

Gennariello, who had been in the courtyard, seated on a bench, quiet in order that no one should notice him, rose and went into the house. Sidora remained beside the wall, with her hands one in another. Lights shone through the windows of the room of the baronello ; she could hear him chatting with the servant who moved about to set things to rights.

“ Do you know, just now my mother has told me that she wishes me to marry that pretty little blonde, signorina Jeraci.”

“ So much happiness, don Luigino. A beauty, she is.”

“ Perbacco! she isn’t equal to the little neighbor Sidora.”

“ That also is true, signorino.”

“ Look here, why don’t you marry la Sidora, Gennariello ? ”

“ So that it would be convenient for your lordship to take her by the chin and kiss her when you please? A woman like that I don’t want.”

Gennariello, from the balcony, emptied a little vase containing the ashes and stumps of the cigars smoked that day by his master. The ashes fell upon the head of Sidora. Quickly she heard up there some blows and a scuffle, and the voice of don Luigino, who exclaimed, “Take it, and take it! Beast! This time I kick you and shake the dust out of your jacket, but if another time — true as I live! — you speak of that honest girl what you would not say of the saints in Paradise, I ’ll twist your neck, I ’ll twist it for you ! ”

“Your excellency did it; I ’ve only said it. He who makes ugly faces need not therefore smash the looking-glass, ” rebutted Gennariello.

All this, for the poor Sidora, was a thousand times worse than even that other affair of Rocco d’ Andrea. So many woes! She dragged herself into the house. No one would have her now, she thought. Rocco and don Luigino, and even that rogue of a Gennariello, all despised her. Nor had she comfort from the portraits on the wall, stiff against the pillar and the curtains of the photographer’s studio; they appeared to look at her with hard faces that did not seem real. Rocco, — what would Rocco have said and done, to know her so scorned ? Poor fellow! only the Madonna knew what he must feel, far away from his own town, among all those soldiers.

Neither did the sorrows of the poor Sidora end there. The next day came donna Basilissa, bursting with venom, under pretext of getting some rags woven for a quilt for the cook’s bed ; and when she found herself alone with old Caterina, she made her a preachment fit to scare Satan himself.

Oh, why had zia Caterina brought up her girl to be the shame of her house? That one invited the young men with singing like a siren; so much so that Rocco d’ Andrea, the mason, had preferred to go for a soldier and leave his bones there, if that were the will of Heaven, rather than have his soul damned for sake of a girl. Also don Luigino, who for sanctity of behavior was a second San Luigi Gonzaga. walking, one might say, in the footprints of his saint, — Sidora put so many temptations before him that the poor child did not know where to turn his gaze, in order not to have her under his eyes.

The grandmother said it was not true; that to Sidora she had given a good education, and these tricks the girl did not play. Donna Basilissa pecked back like a ruffled hen, and said that with low people, to wish to make them hear reason was like washing the head of a donkey, —one loses time and soap. And she went out of the house, while the old woman shrieked after her, “May evil come upon you! ”

This ill augury was a serious affair, spoken by zia Caterina, whom everybody knew to be a witch. In fact, compare Felice Spaccaceppo maintained that, coming home from the woods one evening, with his axe on his shoulder, he had seen her riding through the air on a goat, — that black one which wore the bell, in the flock tended by Sidora, — on the way “over the waters and over the wind ” to the nut-tree of Benevento, to dance there the ridda of the devil. ’T is not needful to believe all that is said, and compare Felice was known to raise his elbow at the tavern of gnà Rosaria; but he swore by his saint that this about zia Caterina was the holy truth.

So donna Basilissa went home like a beaten dog. She had said her say, but meanwhile the witch had cursed her, and who else could take off the magaria? At first zia Caterina felt herself quite triumphant, having driven off the enemy; but the drop of poison had entered her mind, and she began to have suspicions of Sidora. So that when, at Avemaria, the girl brought home the goats from the mountain the grandmother was already in bed, with her face toward the wall, and would not say a word, only, “To-day I have heard all from donna Basilissa, how you play the coquette with every Christian that passes by. Do not speak to me, do not touch me, for you are my death! ”

The fire was spent upon the hearth; Sidora ate some cold minestra. Later, not daring to lie down at the side of the grandmother, she seated herself on the floor and leaned against the ladder where the hens had gone to roost. How could the poor girl know that the nonna was anything but at the point of death, that it was all words? When the screech-owl alighted on the eaves that night and cried, Sidora thought, “She comes because she knows that the nonna is to die.”Sidora was innocent, — ah! the Madonna knew that, — but no one would believe it. If Rorco had been at home, he, perhaps, would have listened to her and defended her. But she had learned from the letters sent by him to his mother that, although by fortune he was assigned to the regiment where was that kind lieutenant who had even taken him for orderly, the brigade was sent in detachment to another town, somewhat distant. If they had remained at Paola, he might have obtained a short leave of absence to visit his mother; but it was so long that he had been away, and only those at Rome, who make war and peace as they wish, could know where the regiment would be commanded.

Sidora, sitting there with cramped legs, thought over these things; finally she arose and lighted the lamp, shading it with her hand, to look at the old woman. The nonna, still with face to the wall, did not move; she seemed like an image carved in walnut-wood. Sidora called her, but she had her deaf ear uppermost, so that it was like talking to a stone.

“ Who will help me? ” said the girl to herself. She went to the door and looked out. The moon was risen above the black mountain, large and golden in the light mists of March; the stars sparkled, and the Great Bear stood above Paola like so many tapers lighted to the honor of San Francesco. Oh, that saint would help her; that fatherly image of solid silver had such a kind look, when they carried him about at his festival. He, who must have heard so many confessions, and had given absolution even to kings with crowns, would have pity for her, a poor girl, accused unjustly. It was true that she had given her promise to compare Rocco and then turned her shoulders to him, but that was because of the fine example of her dead, who would not have her marry one who had resisted the military levy. It was also true that she had eaten the cakes given to her by don Luigino, and had absorbed his words, still more sugared; but she had not done it with ill intent. And meanwhile she felt herself scorched with shame and sorrow, worse than the ewe lamb of San Francesco that was butchered and put on the coals by wicked persons, down there at the furnace near the monastery.

“ Ah, San Franceesco benedetto, ” she prayed, with her eyes raised toward those stars, “ bring me out of the fire of these brands, that I may come forth white like thy little sheep, without even the smell of burning! ”

It seemed to Sidora that the stars winked at her like the eyes of the statue of the Madonna del Carmine when to some devout person she promises a special grace. “ I will go with the Daughters of Mary to the festival, and I will make with my tongue the six steps of the furnace of San Francesco, so that he may protect me.”

Then she turned and went into the house, with consolation in her heart. The grandmother had been awakened by the gleam of the lamp which was left on the chest of drawers. She sat up in bed. “What have you been doing, bad girl, slipping out at night like a cat ? ” she asked.

To Sidora the hard words seemed like a benediction. She had not, then, been the death of the nonna. “No harm, grandmother. I could not sleep, and stood on the threshold to take a mouthful of air. And I have prayed to San Francesco.”

Zia Caterina looked fixedly at Sidora; the clear gaze of the girl could not be doubted. “ Eh, come to bed, then,” recommended the old woman. “ ' Do no ill and you ’ll have no harm, ’ ” says the proverb; and who says his prayers is n’t stealing pears. Also, that old maid may have said worse than the truth of you. ”

With these expressions, not too flattering, Sidora was content. She blew out the light, and went to lie down beside the grandmother, who put the coverlet over the trembling shoulders of the girl.

Before closing her eyes, Sidora asked, “ Say, nonna, do you permit me to go with the Daughters of Mary to Paola next week, for the festival of San Francesco? ”

That ear which had good hearing was now uppermost, as the old woman lay with her face turned toward Sidora.

“ You will do well to go there. I shall speak to comare Mariantonia Sciorsi, that she may take you with her Nennella.”

The two women fell asleep.

III.

What does San Franceseo think about it up there, to see in these years a part of his monastery used for infantry barracks ? So that it may be said that he has peace on one hand and war on the other! To those few monks who yet remained there it appeared that Heaven sent to them of all sorts together, this time, when, in the last of March, just as they were preparing for the festival of the saint, there came the battalion which was in detachment to change garrison with that which had been quartered in the building. What would San Francesco have said, he who kept Lent the whole year, and scourged his flesh with the knots of his rope girdle, and preached to the people, and was even godfather to a king with a crown at Paris of France, and set him in the way to Paradise ?

But so wills the government; and as the padre missionario told the others in the refectory. “ Patience; for wars are things of this world and must pass away, but the saints abide in heaven.” So they gave themselves peace when they heard the tramp of the battalion that entered the courtyard, and stayed at table without even raising their eyes from the gifts of Heaven which they had in their plates.

Around the monastery swarmed the soldiers; there was a great coming and going on the staircase and in the corridors of the right wing of the edifice. From the lower rooms over the arch of the torrent were heard the officers’ horses, that neighed and stamped their hoofs in the stalls. In front of the chapel of the saint, the courtyard was a house of the devil, one might say, with the corporals who scolded and swore, and the soldiers who ran into each other trying to obey orders. Among all those who hardly stayed in their skins for joy were Rocco d’ Andrea and the lover of mistress Rosaria, Pomponio Tregambe. The family got its name, from Borrelli that it was, when the great-grandfather broke a knee by a fall from a chestnut-tree, so that he was obliged to use a walkingstick for the third leg.

When it was known that the detachment was to go to Paola, these two soldiers had planned to ask for a few days of furlough to visit their town and make a pleasant surprise to their friends. Rocco hoped in his heart that, with absence and by favor of the good name which he had earned in those months of the military service, — for the terrible “page 18 ” recorded no misconduct on the part of private d’ Andrea, — comare Sidora might return to care for him as before. Then the mamma would be waiting for him with open arms; he would be so glad to see his little old woman again, and his brother’s family. And the signor curate, and the neighbors, and the beasts, and the walls of the houses, —all were dear to him. To Pomponio it seemed a thousand years until he could find himself again at the tavern of gnà, Rosavia, of whom he was to be the third husband. She had married first the pig-driver Turi Musso, for sake of his fine eyes. When he was shot in a quarrel, on the threshold of the tavern of zio Onesimo Marrone, and fell face downward in a pool of blood, she ran from their hovel; and while she was shrieking at the sight of that poor fellow, who never would kiss her or beat her again, the warm yellow light showed her zio Onesimo leaning forward to look, among his bottles and glasses; and crowding toward the door so many customers that must make his fortune, with all the water that he put into his wines, and the great bush over the door as if to say, Here one eats and drinks. So two months after the pig-driver was buried the widow took uncle Onesimo; and although it displeased the curate, he was obliged to marry them, because, after all, they would have it so, and were masters to do as it appeared and was pleasing to them. Mistress Rosavia drew customers to the tavern. Now that she was no longer hungry or cold, she looked like a ripe peach; she laughed and chatted with everybody, and for certain persons would drink first from the glass, — “by way of putting in some honey, ” said compare Pomponio Tregambe. People had begun to murmur about Tregambe, who buzzed around the wife of uncle Onesimo, when, as if in order to shut their mouths, the old man went off to the other world. Rosaria, who had conscientiously taken care of the poor old fellow, who she said was a second father to her, as soon as she had closed his eyes made compare Pomponio understand that the tavern and the wine-cellar and the bush and the landlady were at his disposal whenever lie would buy the wedding-ring. At that point was the affair when the military levy took place. Now, compare Pomponio could not give himself peace; he was consumed with the desire to enter that tavern again, take mistress Rosaria by the waist, eat her up with kisses on the face that bewitched him, and go with her, as soon as might be, to the syndic and the priest.

The handsome lieutenant who had taken Rocco d’ Andrea for his orderly learned somewhat of these love affairs; and indeed he often encouraged Rocco, advising him for his good how to make himself esteemed by Sidora. But instead of a spur there was needed a curb for Pomponio Tregambe, who seemed to have the demon in his body, and was always under punishment for escapades and breaches of discipline. More than once Pomponio had slipped away at night, and returned to quarters before dawn with a broken bead that bore witness to the cudgel of some offended citizen, and procured him new troubles with his superiors. At first the lieutenant tried him with kind words, saying, “ See here, Tregambe, these ways will not please your sweetheart. ” That was one day when it happened that Rocco was ill, and had asked his fellow-townsman to take the lieutenant’s commands in his stead. Pomponio had answered, “ She likes a man of spirit, signor ufficiale ; she is n’t like a girl, you know. ” Then the lieutenant warned him: “ Take care that when you are returned to Paola you do not go to prison instead of to your town, ” — as in fact happened .

The brigade was quartered, with the officers in the rooms over the arch of the torrent, while the soldiers were lodged in the right wing of the building. In the left wing, which formed one side of the inclosure of the courtyard, while the wall built upon the steep bank of the river was the other, lived a few monks, passing their latter years in pious works and meditation. From these holy men it was soon heard that on the second day of April would be celebrated, with great pomp, the festival of the patron, San Francesco di Paola, to which many people would come, not only from the town near by, but from the mountain and seacoast villages at a distance of one or two days’ journey. To many of the military this would be a novelty. The Calabrian soldiers, who knew the deeds of San Francesco, added their explanations to the words of the monks. The lieutenant, who was from Tuscany, had Rocco act as his guide in the surroundings of the monastery. Together they followed the course of the torrent, stood under the cascade for a thorough wetting, strayed upon the terraces of the hill, and, before reëntering the quarters, rested on the grass near the socalled furnace of San Francesco.

“ Inside that iron grating, signor tenente, you see the furnace; and if you will, I ’ll tell you the miracle. San Francesco had a little ewe, white and beautiful, that he loved like a daughter. Because, your excellency, the beasts don’t sin; and it was a consolation to the saint to have some one near him that did not say, ‘Father, I confess and accuse myself.’ The little sheep would rub her head against the knots of the scourge on his rope girdle, quite content, and the saint would say, ‘Blessed are the innocent! ’ One day, the little sheep was nibbling the tender grass here on the slope, when there came some ruffians, who took her, cut her throat, and skinned her; then they made a fire in the furnace, which the saint had built for some holy purpose, and put the sheep on the coals to roast. After they had eaten, they consumed the skin and the bones of the little sheep in the furnace, and went away, without thinking that they had blessed meat in their bodies, — may it have been to them for poison! At Avemaria came San Francesco to bring his little sheep to the stall, but he did not find her. He called and called her, but she did not come. Then the saint smelt the odor of roast meat as he approached the furnace, and guessed what had happened. He called her once more: ‘ Pecorella, come forth, in the name of Heaven! ’ And she leaped out from the embers, white and unharmed, with her fleece not even singed, and ran to rub herself against the girdle of the saint, as if to say, ’Pray for all sinners, even those who have wished to do me harm. ’ And the saint took her in his arms and carried her back to the monastery.”

“A fine story,” said the lieutenant. “But had not the ruffians eaten the sheep? Was not their dinner beyond the sound of the saint’s voice? What have you to say about that ? ”

“Signor tenente,” answered Rocco, very serious, “when ’t is a question of miracles, we must have faith.”

“ Right, you are. That was truly a great saint. Now we will return to the quarters. ”

As the lieutenant, followed by his orderly, reentered the courtyard there was a case of insubordination. As usual, the one in fault was the soldier Tregambe. Because his shoes were dirty the corporal had ordered him to clean them, and he had answered without respect. The corporal called him a Calabrian pig; and he replied that he would break the ugly mastiff’s muzzle of the corporal. The squabble was just there when the lieutenant appeared.

“Stop! Be silent! ” cried the officer. “Go about your business, corporal, This time, Tregambe, you go to prison and lose your furlough.”

Having given some orders, the lieutenant, who was officer of that week, went to his room.

“Signor tenente,” said Rocco humbly, “excuse me, but I ’m sorry for that poor devil, because — because — he is from my town, and — when one has a sweetheart, signor tenente ” —

“ I understand. Go to bring a pitcher of water. ”

Hardly was the lieutenant alone when he heard a sound of shots in the sleeping-room of the soldiers. He hastened there. In the middle of the camerone was the soldier Tregambe, muttering to himself as if mad. He had taken his Vetterli from the rack, and was loading and firing it rapidly, turning about in a circle.

“ Down with your gun! ” cried the lieutenant.

“ ’T is you I want, beast of an officer! ” Tregambe fired again, aiming at the lieutenant, who stood in the doorway. Some soldiers ran up the staircase, at the sound of the shots. Tregambe fired again and again; his eyes were red; he was like a fierce wild beast, mad and roaring. From another door Rocco d’ Andrea leaped out. With the pitcher of water that he had in his hand he struck down the rifle of Tregambe ; the pitcher smashed, and the gun went off again with a little cloud of smoke. Tregambe was flung hard upon the floor, as Rocco shouted, “ There you are! ” Then were heard the dull blows of Rocco’s fists, that solemnly pounded Tregambe and spoiled him for the festival days. Then the flash of steel, and Tregambe in his turn gave a cry of ferocious joy. A sergeant and some privates ran and seized Tregambe. Handcuffed, he was carried away, struggling and blaspheming like a lost soul.

“ Has he hurt you, signor tenente? ” asked Rocco, picking up from the floor Tregambe’s clasp-knife dripping with blood, and the rifle.

“ Not at all. But you, go to find the doctor, for your sleeve is soaked with blood.”

“ A scratch that a cat could have made. But you see, signor tenente, that Pomponio Tregambe is no joke.”

“ Go, go. You have done well, d’ Andrea. ”

Between officer and soldier compliments are not made; but Rocco understood the glance of the lieutenant; and because we love most those to whom we have done good, Rocco from that day would have given not only the ounce of blood which he lost, but life itself, for his officer.

As to Pomponio Tregambe, he went to the galleys, and gnà Rosaria had to seek another husband. But “he who is dead and alive is the one that pleased me best, ” she would say afterward. And whoever has heard the whole story of mistress Rosaria knows that she, too, came to a had end.

Rocco’s wound, in the forearm, was judged curable in twenty days, and he minded it but little; for he was accorded leave to go home and stay there until fit to resume service, and he calculated that, provided comare Sidora were not too cruel, they might have a wedding in that time. So much he hinted to the lieutenant, who told him, as is the saying, not to count four until you have it in the bag. But what one desires it is easy to hope. At all events, Rocco would return with the people from his town who would come for the festival of San Francesco, which was to take place in a few days. Meanwhile, it made him somewhat melancholy that another soldier must act as orderly to his lieutenant, while he carried his arm tied to his neck and stayed idle to watch the flies in the air. It was a fine moment for him whenever the lieutenant came to speak a few words to him, as he sat on the balcony of the barracks to enjoy the sun.

Rocco would not have a letter written to his mother to tell her of his wound, or even that the battalion was come to Paola. “I will make her a surprise, returning with the devout,” he said. Neither could the news be taken to the village, as usual, by compare Vito, the carrier, because, in moving some of those big casks of don Cosimo Mastrangelo, he had let one of them roll upon his foot, so that he was obliged to stay in his house and listen to the bay mules that fired off kicks in the stall because they had a tickling in the legs from idleness.

The expectation to see his townspeople, perhaps among them some dear person, his brother and his sister-inlaw, — he dared not imagine to himself that Sidora would come, — made Rocco immensely happy, although it slightly increased the fever of the wound. He sang his favorite songs, so that the corporal said to him, “One may know that it isn’t your throat which was cut, — may San Biagio save it to you! ”

Before the dawn of the festival day Rocco arose from his bed, and, having put on his clothes as best he could, with that arm which was a hindrance, he went to seat himself at a window that looked out across the torrent upon the level road and the courtyard of the chapel of San Francesco. A soldier in the bed next to his awoke.

“What is the matter, d’ Andrea? Does your arm hurt you ? ”

“No. It is the music that does me good,” answered Rocco.

In fact, with the sharp hearing of a mountaineer, he had perceived far away the shrill buzzing notes of the piva; and soon also the voices of the chorus, men and women, who sang psalms on their way toward the monastery.

“ Do you hear it ? They will come also from my town,” said Rocco.

The other soldier turned over in bed and went to sleep again. Rocco, at the window, was intently listening to the music, which now reached him and now not, according as it was borne by the wind. To him it appeared like the voice of his own village; it recalled his departure, the first days of military life, when he was so lonely and did not even know how to wear his coat to please the corporal, all the hopes and anxieties and need to see his dear ones. That music spoke all that he would not have known how to say in words, nor even to think.

The rush of the torrent mixed with the voices, which little by little came nearer. Down there in the ravine was a black depth ; beyond, in the other wing of the monastery, lights appeared in some windows ; in the courtyard moved the yellow flames of torches, whose glare made certain groups of people stand out from the shadow. Those arrived the evening before were lodged by charity of the monks in unoccupied cells and corridors. Of these, some weary ones slept soundly; others issued to meet the new-comers, Every moment the noise increased, as more companies reached the courtyard. Confraternities, sodalities of women, whole populations of towns, advanced in a living stream, constantly greater. The bells of the monastery rang, amid a babel of instruments and voices. Now the rush of the river was not heard, only felt, like the jar of heavy wheels upon a stony road. Little by little the darkness melted away; the stars went out like sparks, and then the sun arose behind the mountain, whose peak appeared golden. Slowly the rays spread down the slope, to color the mists and rejoice the fig-groves and the vineyards.

Later, Rocco descended into the courtyard to see the procession that was to move from the church at nine o’clock. The crowd was a mingling of colors, — black cloaks of peasants, white gowns of brethren, banners that looked like fountains of gold, with figures of saints, red, blue, purple, jostling, swaying, as they went. New streams of people poured along the road, with here and there a hindrance or an eddy, just like the torrent that never ceases to hasten down the mountain to visit the saint. Then came more banners, borne aloft. Rocco wondered who would carry the standard of his parish this year, — that fine Sant’ Antonio with his pig, big and fat so that it seemed real.

Peddlers cried their wares fit to tear their throats, leaning over their benches of trinkets or fruits. At the doors of the church was the press of believers who could not find a place inside, among the great crowd densely packed there in order to witness the functions. The hour of nine struck, and the white gowns of a confraternity appeared at the door of the church. A stout layman went before with the banner of the parish, a real flame of red and gold. The crowd made way to let pass the double flies, that seemed endless, of confraternities, walking behind their banners, with wax candles lit. And if a taper, too much inclined forward, let fall a scalding drop of wax on the back of the neck of the brother in front, he took it in holy peace, for sake of the saint. Last of each company, with a layman on either side, came a priest, keeping in sight the two lines of his flock, to right and left. They passed and passed, while the band played, and the devout cried, “Viva San Francesco! ” Finally came forth the saint in person, a fine image of silver, of natural size, but half-length.

“And in fact.” said Rocco, “what need of legs has the blessed image of San Francesco, that always stays in the church, to protect with his hands, all ringed with jewels, those little walls of his city, with two angels that open their palms to recommend charity ? Or he goes carried about on that fine pedestal that looks like gold, better than the throne of a king, while the flowered canopy shades him from the sun that would look him in the face. He can do very well without legs, San Francesco benedetto! ”

The band burst forth loudly, with trumpets and bass drum. San Francesco crossed the threshold of the church, while the people fell on their knees and cried, “Pray for us, San Francesco! Do us the grace, San Francesco! ”

Then the procession went down the road toward the town of Paola, near the sea, where balconies and doors were hung with rugs and festoons of bright colors, and tilled with people who waited to receive the benediction of the saint. He was carried through the streets, the way was strewed with many flowers, the crowd followed the procession, while hells and music and vivas and the uproar of voices and of feet made honor to the patron of the city.

Afterward, the saint was brought, home as he went ; and he being set again in his place in the church, the people scattered to enjoy the festival, each in his way. Rocco had seen pass the confraternity of his parish, with Ihe others. Compare Cola Scardelli appeared as if he carried with difficulty that heavy banner of the blessed Sant’ Antonio with the pig. “For that saint are needed certain arms! ” thought Rocco. “Oh, why does not some one of my town come to find me? ”

Tired and disappointed, he sat in a corner, with his head against a wall, looking at some women from the town of Guardia Piemontese who passed, all stripes of gay colors and embroidery and gold fringes, like Turks, when he heard his name called. Nennella Sciorsi, the “peppercorn,” came toward him, in company with the Bacigalupo girls and their mother, comare Menica.

“ Oh, compare Rocco, has there been the war ? ”

“ No war, comare Nennella. ’T is a question of a knife out of place.”

“ Does it hurt you much ? ” asked comare Menica.

“ Thanks, very little. But tell me the news from the town. How is my mamma ? ”

“ She is well, but too stout to run to festivals, she says.”

“ And my brother and his wife, are they here? ”

“ No; for Pietro has gone to the Piana to the fields of massaro Arcangelo, and without him Rosa wouldn’t come. ”

Rocco did not dare to name Sidora.

“There ’s don Saverio making signs that we go to him, ” said one of the Bacigalupo sisters. “We will tell him that you are here, compare Rocco.”

They turned to go to the curate; but Nennella Sciorsi thrust out her little brown face toward Rocco.

“And you, in an hour, seek Sidora at the furnace of San Francesco. Now she ’s in the church, praying. You will find her later at the furnace, ” Nennella told him, behind the shoulders of the Bacigalupo girls.

Rocco thrilled with love. Nennella was inside the mind of Sidora, and she gave him hope. He wished to appear indifferent, for one cannot be sure before the fact. “So many thanks, comare Peppercorn, ” said he.

That hour of waiting appeared to him endless. Don Saverio came to talk to him, and also the syndic and the town clerk, with others who had heard of his brave deed. Finally, as Heaven willed, arrived the moment when he could betake himself to the furnace. Having made his way there, Rocco saw on the steps of the furnace Some persons, — comare Mariantonia Sciorsi with Nennella, and mastro Vanni with their youngest boy, Ciccillo, who had wished to bring his own little sheep for a gift to the patron saint. And among them — it did not seem to him real — was comare Sidora on her knees, who made her way up the steps, with lowered head, passing her tongue across each of those dusty stones. Then she raised herself and stood upon the highest step, against the grating, tall and beautiful, with her face aflame, so that she appeared like a blessed wax taper to the praise of San Francesco.

Rocco could not restrain himself. He ran to her, and, without asking leave, embraced her with his sound arm and let off a great kiss on her cheek. Not to be an inconvenient witness, the little sheep made a great jump for liberty; mastro Vanni and the boy were after her. Comare Mariantonia and Nennella feigned to be absorbed in the affair of the little sheep, and took no notice of the two lovers.

This time, heart of a rabbit could not be said of Rocco d’ Andrea. He had taken Sidora to himself without compliments. And she murmured to him, “My fine brigand, my dear soldier! ”

For he had captured her, conquered her, and the way pleased her. They all sat down near the furnace, Rocco and Sidora a little apart from the Sciorsi family, that was wholly occupied with taking off some brambles which had hooked themselves into the fleece of the little sheep.

“ Blessed be San Francesco that has brought me unharmed out of the furnace where I was in torment, ” said Sidora, as she finished telling to Rocco all that trouble of hers.

“ Blessed forever! ” he answered.

At that moment arrived the lieutenant, who sought Rocco to say good-by to him. The latter, quite glorious, explained things in few words: “ Signor tenente, here is my bride, la Sidora.”

The lieutenant wished her every happiness. “And I shall come to the wedding. ”

They confused themselves with compliments. “ Vossignoria will be the welcome guest! Too much honor, signor tenente! Since your excellency deigns so much ! ”

The officer turned to Nennella Sciorsi, whose small mouth was puckered like a red rosebud. “Ohè, little brown girl, you must dance with me, that day! ”

And Nennella, for once, had nothing to say but a meek “ Sissignore. ”

The valorous action of Rocco had been told by those who first reached the village; and as he with his friends came up the road, he met his mother running with open arms to meet him. She embraced him, and wept for pity and for consolation to see that arm tied to his neck, and that cheerful face that for so long she had beheld only in dreams. He passed his left hand over her head. “ Poor mamma! Come, take courage, I tell you, for I bring you a daughter,” and he pushed Sidora into the arms of the old woman.

Then came zia Caterina, who looked like a revived mummy from Egypt, hastening with her arms raised and her hands clutching the air, screaming benedictions upon Rocco. She invoked the Madonna and all the saints in a string, — those who have their day in the calendar, and those “ extravagant ” ones who must depend upon the good memory of the believers. But to Rocco she made a still greater pleasure when, that evening, as he approached her house, she threw open the door, saying, “ Enter, my son. You are welcome. I give to you my Sidora, for you have a heart of gold.”

When it was known that the wedding-day was fixed, don Luigino carried a gold necklace to Rocco and asked him to take it as a gift to Sidora. Rocco, now that he was a soldier, could look any one in the face, were it the king; and he and the baron talked together like two honest men who need not to conceal their thoughts. The little scandal had passed, like the smoke of one of the baronello’s cigars. Don Luigino was formally affianced to donna Adelina Jeraci, and would not concern himself any more with girls. Everybody was content except cousin Basilissa — green and sour, worse than an unripe lemon — and gnà Rosaria. The latter, because of the misfortune of compare Pomponio Tregambe, hung a piece of black cloth on the bush of the tavern floor, and put on a black gown, and over it a waistcoat of Pomponio’s, which she begged from his mother, and declared that she would wear until it should fall off in rags. Just as if she were the widow of that third husband whom she never had! And, as has already been said, that woman ended badly.

According to his promise, the lieutenant came to the wedding of his orderly, He danced with comare Nennella, with the Bacigalupo girls and the others, as well as with donna Adelina Jeraci. He was invited to visit at the palazzo of the baron, where he made a great friendship with don Luigino. The day of the marriage was about the middle of the beautiful month of April, when the fields and hedges are in bloom, and the air is filled with odors and songs. It was fine to see Sidora d’ Andrea go to the house of her husband, walking proud as a queen, carrying on her head the great fir-wood chest that contained all her store of woolen and linen cloth, her skeins, reel and spindle, her dishes and household utensils.

“ That one will give strong sons to my son, ” said comare Grazia, on the threshold to receive her daughter-in-law.

In the evening there was merrymaking in the piazza, and people danced to the music, while the April moon, large and round, appeared like a silver mirror for so much joy. Nor were fireworks and squibs lacking, so that Nennella Sciorsi said, “ It is as if compare Rocco was being made a saint; ” and he answered, “ If I were a saint, I would do a miracle for you, by way of gratitude, comarella Peppercorn! ”

Later, Sidora rained sugar-plums into the hands of those who came to sing the serenade. Rocco stood behind her, laughing and giving pushes and pinches to her elbow. “Better for you,” he told her, “ that I keep one hand yet in repose. ”

As the musicians went away along the road flooded with the moonlight, Sidora turned to her husband. Great tears gleamed in her eyes, as she said. “ Listen, Rocco. In a few days they will recall you to the regiment, where you have done yourself such honor. Who knows when we shall see each other again ? For there will be the summer camp that you told me of; and then perhaps you will have to go far away where, if you speak the name of your town, there is no one who knows it. And to me who will wait for you, every year will appear ten.”

“And to me who leave you, a hundred! ”

“ Which of us has the worst of it only Heaven knows. But here, in my heart, I shall have you always present, until you come back from being a soldier.”

The night was tranquil; in the west the stars of the Great Bear sparkled above the monastery of San Francesco di Paola.

Elisabeth Cavazza.