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 fare, taking up with stony-eyed voracity piece after piece lying by his side, the Garibaldino went off, and squatting down in another corner, filled an earthenware mug with red wine out of a wicker-covered demijohn. With a familiar gesture, as when serving customers in the café, he had thrust his pipe between his teeth to have his hands free.

The capataz drank greedily. A slight flush deepened the bronze of his cheek. Before him, Viola, with a turn of his white and massive head towards the staircase, took his empty pipe out of his mouth and pronounced slowly:

After the shot was fired down here, which killed her as surely as if the bullet had struck her oppressed heart, she called upon you to save the children. Upon you, Gian' Battista."

The capataz looked up.

"Did she do that, padrone? To save the children!They are with the English señora, their rich benefactress. Hey? old man of the people. Thy benefactress…"

"I am old," muttered Giorgio Viola. "An English-woman was allowed to give a bed to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever lived. A man of the people, too—a sailor. I may let another keep a roof over my head. Si... I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long sometimes."

"And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are out unless I... What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head? Am I to try—and save all the Blancos together with her?"