"Eh! You good-for-nothings!" he called out to them. "Is nothing done
to-day because the mother is dead? No bread to-night, then--you know
that."

"We will not work for you any more," answered Ruggiero, the elder, as
both turned round.

Don Pietro went up to them. He had a short stout stick in his hand,
tough and black with age, and he lifted it as though to drive them to
work. They waited quietly till it should please him to come to close
quarters, which he did without delay. I have said that he was a man of
few words. But the Children of the King were not like Calabrian boys,
children though they were. Their wolfish teeth were very white as they
waited for him with parted lips, and there was an odd blue light in
their eyes which is not often seen south of Goth-land.

They were but twelve and ten years old, but they could fight already, in
their small way, and had tried it many a time with shepherd lads on the
hill-side. But Don Pietro despised children and aimed a blow at
Ruggiero's right shoulder. The blow did not take effect, but a moment
had not passed before the old peasant lay sprawling on his back with
both the boys on top of him.

"You cannot hurt the mother now," said Ruggiero. "Hit him as I do,
Bastianello!"

And the four bony boyish fists fell in a storm of savage blows upon Don
Pietro Casale's leathern face and eyes and head and thin grey lips.