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 "How much pity would they have, do you think, if they were offered riches, as they may be, any one of them, by to-morrow? They are the weak and the poor who form your Army of Pity—a little band that to-day sings hallelujah to God, and to-morrow will sell his brother's life for less than twenty pieces of copper. Where your town breeds one Ludovico Casamatto it spawns twenty of the breed of Sala. A knowledge of the hearts of men has been my business these many years."

"Hark," said I, for far off they were singing, and this time the piping children were drowned by full-voiced singing of men as a great procession moved along the street. Joy and light walked with them. Gladly would I have joined them.

"There are many who are not there," said Mazzaleone in his low, flickering voice. "I do not see the cobbler's lame son." Then he says, after a pause, "And what night shall my men slit his throat for you, Matteo?"

I looked at him without answering.

"And did you think," says he, "that I would let him wreak his spite upon my