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 always, also, this resentful thought—he is condemned, this bold marauder who carries his life in hand, whilst the sleek poltroons, the thieves in broadcloth and fine linen, the Barabbi of commerce, stalk abroad through the tens of thousands they have duped or ruined, untouched by law, undenounced by any wrath of earth or wrath of heaven. The preference of the multitude may be unsound morality, but it has a wild justice and a rude logic at its base.

Santa Tarsilla once more lamented for Saturnino. It was of the same mind with the mob of Orbetello, which, could it have got at the woman whose stupidity had cost him his liberty, would have made her rue that ever she had been born.

In like manner all the villages and the towns in Maremma mourned for him; feeling pity and pain for the old eagle of their rocks who had broken loose from his cage only to be trapped afresh. He had once been the glory of Maremma; the country was hurt in its own pride to think that their hero was dealt with like any mean cut-purse of the cities.

Even to little San Lionardo the tidings of his sad fate travelled; travelled by the