"That is for the mother," said Ruggiero. "Another fifty a-piece for
ourselves."

The wiry old peasant struggled desperately, and at last threw himself
free of them and staggered to his feet.

"Quick, Bastianello!" shouted Ruggiero.

In the twinkling of an eye they were over the fence and running at full
speed for the valley. Don Pietro bruised, dazed and half-blinded,
struggled after them, crashing through hedges and stumbling into ditches
while he shouted for help in his pursuit. But his heavy shoes hampered
him, and at best he was no match for them in speed. His face was covered
with purple blotches and his eyelids were swelling at a terrible rate.
Out of breath and utterly worn out he stood still and steadied himself
against a crooked olive-tree. He could no longer hear even the footsteps
of the lads before him.

They were beyond his reach now. The last of the Children of the King had
left Verbicaro, where their fathers had lived and died since darker ages
than Calabrian history has accurately recorded.




CHAPTER II.


"We shall never see him again," said Ruggiero, stopping at last and
looking back over the stone wall he had just cleared.