the look which Berto had never seen but once—once, when a woman of the Northern leles had toiled wearily, begging her way, into Rome, to look on her son's face, and had reached in time to see the last earth thrown upon his coffin, whilst in the fair spring morning the French drums rolled a cruel music through the violet odours of the burial-place, and over the majesty and the shame of the great prostituted city.
"Yes, go," she said, briefly; "you need rest I will take your watch."
She drew his rifle to her, and leaned her hands upon its mouth.
The boy went, obedient; in one of the inner hollows that served as bed-chambers his couch of grass was spread; he had not lain down for three nights, and sleep sealed his eyes as soon as their lids were closed. Across the flame of the pine-logs the Greek watched her, irresolute; embarrassed by his own success. It was dark as midnight in the heart of the pierced sea-wall; the play of the rising and falling flames fell irregularly on the gloom: she sat motionless, as she had sat upon the shore, her clasped hands resting on the slanted rifle, the tawny splendour of the fire cast on the splendour of her face.
She thought no more of him; she thought alone
