It Crosses Streams Of Crystal Clearness, Rises Afresh In Endless Gyrations Under The Pines Only To Vanish, Yet Again, Into The Twilight Of Deeper Abysses, Where It Skirts The Rivulet Along Precarious Ledges, Until Some New Obstruction Blocks The Way - So It Writhes About For Long, Long Hours.

.

. .

Here, on the spot, one can understand how an outlaw like Musolino was enabled to defy justice, helped, as he was, by the fact that the vast majority of the inhabitants were favourable to him, and that the officer in charge of his pursuers was paid a fixed sum for every day he spent in the chase and presumably found it convenient not to discover his whereabouts. [Footnote: See next chapter.]

We rested awhile, during these interminable meanderings, under the shadow of a group of pines.

"Do you see that square patch yonder?" said my man. "It is a cornfield. There Musolino shot one of his enemies, whom he suspected of giving information to the police. It was well done."

"How many did he shoot, altogether?"

"Only eighteen. And three of them recovered, more or less; enough to limp about, at all events. Ah, if you could have seen him, sir! He was young, with curly fair hair, and a face like a rose. God alone can tell how many poor people he helped in their distress. And any young girl he met in the mountains he would help with her load and accompany as far as her home, right into her father's house, which none of us would have risked, however much we might have liked it.

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