The innkeeper looked towards the door and the small window suspiciously
before he answered in a low voice.

"If I had not been sure that he would die, I would not have sold the
watch and chain," he said. "In the house of my father we have always
been honest people."

"He will die," answered Nanna, confidently and with emphasis. "The girl
says he is hungry to-day. He shall eat beans. They are white beans, too,
and the white are much heavier than the brown."

She lifted the tin cover off the earthen pot and stirred the contents.

"White beans!" grumbled Paoluccio. "And the weather is hot. Do you wish
to kill me?"

"No," answered Nanna quietly. "Not you."

"Do you know what I say?" Paoluccio planted a huge finger on the oaken
board. "That sick butterfly upstairs is tougher than I am. Forty-seven
days of fever, and nothing but bread and water! Think of that, my Nanna!
Think of it! You or I would be consumed, one would not even see our
shadows on the floor! But he lives."

"If he eats the white beans he has finished living," remarked Nanna.

A short silence followed, during which Paoluccio seemed to be
meditating, and Nanna began to ladle the beans out into four deep
earthenware bowls, roughly glazed and decorated with green and brown
stripes.