ister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness. She
spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional English, which, for
the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

"I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the daughter
of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of
that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I came to love
him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position--nothing but
his beauty and strength and energy--so my father forbade the match. We
fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the
money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we
have been in New York ever since.

"Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a
service to an Italian gentleman--he saved him from some ruffians in the
place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was
Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of
Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York.
Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power
within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my
husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed
his good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a
bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and
both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken
and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed
assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our
sky.

"One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a
fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had
come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for
you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant
but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His
voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for
the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions,
his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather
roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed
with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you
at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that
he is dead!

"He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro