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 seemed to her so just; it was almost beautiful in its inexorable and instant justice.

'You are savage,' said Zirlo.

'Why not?' she answered; to be savage was right enough; it was what they called the boar, when he fought for his own poor life, and his own lair in the thickets.

The boy said nothing. He was frightened. If ever she knew, he thought, of those centimes?

Musa rose, leaving the rest of her bread uneaten, and dropping it between the paws of the dog.

'He wronged my shelter and betrayed me,' she said once more. 'He has met a right fate. Zirlo, drive your goats farther on; my mule needs this forage.'

Zirlo rose and mutely obeyed.

His heart was beating. He wished that the polenta and baccala that had tempted him, and that old Deaneira's luscious muscat wine that was like the honey of thyme-fed bees, had all been down the throats of the people of San Lionardo instead of down his own.

'If ever she know, she will beat me