n me with bad eyes. Then my mother cursed him, and he took up
a stone and struck her on the head, and she died. They sent him to the
galleys, and me to work at the inn, because I had no friends. This is
the family of Regina. It is a race of assassins and wicked women. If I
were your wife, that would be the family of your wife. If God sent
children, that would be the blood they would have of me, to mix with
that of your mother, who is one of the saints in heaven. This is the
truth. If you think I am telling you one thing for another, let us go to
the inn on the Frascati road. Paoluccio and Nanna know. They would laugh
if they could see me dressed like a real signora, and they would say,
'This girl is her mother's daughter!' And so I am."

She ceased speaking, and again waited for his answer, but he had none
ready, and there was silence. She had put the ugly truth too plainly
before him, and he could not shut up his understanding against it; he
could not deny what she said, he could never teach himself to believe
that it did not matter. And yet, he did not mean to draw back, or give
up his purpose, even then. Men of good birth had married peasant women
before now. They had given up the society of their old friends, they had
lived in remote places, they had become half peasants themselves, their
sons had grown up to be rough farmers, and had done obligatory military
service in the ranks for years, because they could not pass an easy
examination. But was all that so very terrible after all, in the light
of the duty that faced him?

The woman had saved his life, had carried him in her arms, had tended
him like a child, had stolen food to keep him alive, had faced
starvation for him when she had got him to the hospital, had nursed
him--had loved him, had given him all she had, and she would have died
for him, if there had been need. Now, she was giving him something more,
for she was refusing to be his wife because she was sure that sooner or
later she must be a burden to him, and that her birth would be a
reproach to his children. No woman could do more for a man than she had
done. She had been his salvation and his good angel; when she had found
out that the life in Paris that amused her was killing him, she had
brought him back to himself, she had made him at last fit and able to
face those who would have destroyed him. She had loved him like a
woman, she had obeyed him and served him like a devoted servant, she had
watch