m
you sent away."

"We did not send Regina away," answered Paoluccio, still furious. "She
ran away in the night, about that time. But, as you say, she may have
invented the story and sent the newspaper men here to worry our lives
with their questions, out of mere spite."

"Who was this Regina?" Ercole asked. "What has she to do with it?"

"Regina? She was the servant girl we had before this one. We took her
out of charity."

"The daughter of some relation, no doubt," Ercole suggested.

"May that never be, if it please the Madonna!" cried Paoluccio. "A
relation? Thank God we have always been honest people in my father's
house! No, it was not a relation. She came of a crooked race. Her mother
took a lover, and her father killed him, here on the Frascati road, and
almost killed her too; but the law gave him the right and he went free."

"And then, what did he do?" asked Ercole, slowly putting the remains of
his bread into his canvas bag.

"What did he do? He went away and never came back. What should he do?"

"Quite right. And the woman, what became of her?"

"She took other men, for she had no shame. And at last one of them was
jealous, and struck her on the head with a paving stone, not meaning to
kill her; but she died."

"Oh, she died, did she?"

"She died. For she was always spiteful. And so that poor man went to the
galleys, merely for hitting her on the head, and not meaning to kill
her."

"And you took the girl for your servant?"

"Yes. She was old enough to work, and very strong, so we took her for
charity. But for my part, I was glad when she ran away, for she grew up
handsome, and with that blood there surely would have been a scandal
some day."

"One sees that you are a very charitable person," Ercole observed
thoughtfully. "The girl must have been very ungrateful if she told
untrue stories about your inn, after all you had done for her. You had
nourished a viper in your house."

"That is what my wife says," Paoluccio answered, now quite calm. "Those
are my wife's very words. As for believing that the young man was ever
in this house, I tell you that the story is a wicked lie. Where should
we have put him? In the cellar with the hogsheads, or in the attic with
the maid? or in our own room? Tell me where we could have put him! Or
perhaps they will say that he slept on the ceiling, like the flies? They
will say anything, chattering, chattering, and coming here with their
questions and their ph