pervaded and tempered by odours of fern, fresh cabbages, goats'-milk
cheese, and sour red wine. The brown earthen pot simmered over one of
the holes in the hearth, emitting little clouds of steam; but boiling
beans have no particular smell, as everybody knows.

Paoluccio had pushed his weather-beaten soft hat back on his head, and
sat drumming on the oak table with his knotty fingers. He was a strong
man, thickset and healthy, with grizzled hair and an intensely black
beard. His wife was fat, and purple about the jaws and under the ears.
She stood with her back to the hearth, looking at him, with a wooden
spoon in her hand.

"Beans," she said slowly, and she looked up at the rafters and down
again at her husband.

"You have told me so," he growled, "and may the devil fly away with
you!"

"Beans are not good for people who have the fever," observed Nanna.

"Beans are rather heavy food," assented the innkeeper, apparently
understanding. "Bread and water are better. Pour a little oil on the
bread."

"A man who has the fever may die of eating beans," said Nanna
thoughtfully. "This is also to be considered."

"It is true." Paoluccio looked at his wife in silence for a moment. "But
a person who is dead must be buried," he continued, as if he had
discovered something. "When a person is dead, he is dead, whether he