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 Yet as I went from him, love struggled with hate in my heart, and both of them were subject to admiration. And when later his page boy, Carlo, killed himself because of more than a passing displeasure of Mazzaleone, I did not wonder, for the least sight of him stirred thus powerfully the hearts of those who came near him in one way or another, as he had stirred the town of San Moglio. Even as he possessed the town so he possessed me. I became a part of him—his eyes. That is why certain scenes are burned into me as by fire.

There are times yet when I see in my sleep the narrow uphill streets of San Moglio, red and black with the flames and smoke of torches, the town rushing through, a hungry flood in pursuit of hot and smoking life after its cold fear of death. I was young. I thought of and had loved San Moglio as I might love a fair and warlike and austere woman, and I had found that the soul of San Moglio was like the lean hag who lusted for life and for revenge even from the grave.

Bands of men and boys—and women, too—went through the streets, terrible and