e it," said Elena, with shining eyes. "The Signorina
must have kept him to play with! He must be playing now with the
Signorina!"

At that moment through the open door there came the sound of a heavy
tread on the stairs, mingled with various voices. Elena's shining face
suddenly clouded, and Rossi, who read her thought, went out on to the
landing. Bruno was coming up the staircase with something in his arms,
and behind him were the Garibaldian and his old wife and a line of
strangers.

Rossi ran down two flights of stairs and met them. He saw everything as
by a flash of lightning. The boy lay in his father's arms. He was white
and cold, with his head fallen back, and his hair matted with flakes of
snow. His gay coat was open, and his little stained shirt was torn out
at the breast. A stranger behind was carrying the cocked hat and mace.

Elena, who was at the head of the stairs by this time, was screaming.

"Keep her away, sir," said Bruno. The poor fellow was trying to be brave
and strong, but his voice was like a voice from the other side of an
abyss.

They took the boy into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa. There
was no keeping the mother back. She forced her way through and laid hold
of the child.

"Get away, he's mine," she cried fiercely.

And then she dropped on her knees before the boy, threw her arms about
him and called on him by his name.

"Joseph! Speak to me! Open your eyes and speak!... What have you been
doing with my child? He is ill. Why don't you send for a doctor? Don't
stand there like fools. Go for a doctor, I tell you ... Joseph! Only a
word!... Have you carried him home without his hat on? And it's snowing
too! He'll get his death of cold ... what's this? Blood on his shirt?
And a wound? Look at this red spot. Have they shot him? No, no, it's
impossible! A child! Joseph! Joseph! Speak to me!... Yes, his heart is
beating." She was pressing her ear to the boy's breast. "Or is it only
the beating in my head? Oh, where is the doctor? Why don't you send for
him?"

They could not tell her that it was useless, that a doctor had seen the
child already, and that all was over. All they could do was to stand
round her with awe in their faces. She understood them without words.
Her hair fell from its knot, and her eyes began to blaze like the eyes
of a maniac.

"They've killed my child!" she cried. "He's dead! My little boy is dead!
Only seven, and it was his birthday! O God! My child! Wha