want? What did he mean? The gestures had been imperative. Maurice
looked round. A little way up the mountain there was a large, closed
building, like a barn, built of stones. It belonged to a contadino, but
Maurice had never seen it open, or seen any one going to or coming from
it. As he stared at it an idea occurred to him. Perhaps Gaspare meant him
to go and wait there, behind the barn, so that Lucrezia should not see or
hear their colloquy. He resolved to do this, and went swiftly up the
hill-side. When he was in the shadow of the building he waited. He did
not know what was the matter, what Gaspare wanted, but he realized that
something had occurred which had stirred the boy to the depths. This
something must have occurred while he was at Marechiaro. Before he had
time mentally to make a list of possible events in Marechiaro, Maurice
heard light feet running swiftly up the mountain, and Gaspare came round
the corner, still with the look of tragedy, a wild, almost terrible look
in his eyes.

"Signorino," he began at once, in a low voice that was full of the
pressure of an intense excitement. "Tell me! Where were you last night
when we were making the fireworks go off?"

Maurice felt the blood mount to his face.

"Close to where you left me," he answered.

"Oh, signore! Oh, signore!"

It was almost a cry. The sweat was pouring down the boy's face.

"Ma non e mia colpa! Non e mia colpa!" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean? What has happened, Gaspare?"

"I have seen Salvatore."

His voice was more quiet now. He fixed his eyes almost sternly on his
padrone, as if in the effort to read his very soul.

"Well? Well, Gaspare?"

Maurice was almost stammering now. He guessed--he knew what was coming.

"Salvatore came up to me just before I got to the village. I heard him
calling, 'Stop!' I stood still. We were on the path not far from the
fountain. There was a broken branch on the ground, a branch of olive.
Salvatore said: 'Suppose that is your padrone, that branch there!' and he
spat on it. He spat on it, signore, he spat--and he spat."

Maurice knew now.

"Go on!" he said.

And this time there was no uncertainty in his voice. Gaspare was
breathing hard. His breast rose and fell.

"I was going to strike him in the face, but he caught my hand, and
then--Signorino, signorino, what have you done?"

His voice rose. He began to look uncontrolled, distracted, wild, as if he
might do some frantic thing.

"Gaspa