cities and the seas of the world are nought to them; their history lies in Pippa's plaiting, in Sandro's bridal, in the birth of children, in the huckster's price for wool and linen. They are peaceful lives; simple, archaic, close-clinging about tradition, more innocent than most lives are; when they are no more on the face of the mountains men will be sadder, and earth will be the poorer.
Into San Lionardo the sensale came this day, and, drinking his thin red wine at the tavern door, told the few people of the hamlet how the brigand had been captured, away there in Orbetello. There was a little fellow there who heard, while his goats and he were lying in the shade of the house wall.
The little fellow was Zefferino, whom his village called Zirlo, who had taken his goats up to the hills out of the heat, and who listened as he lay in the shade on the stones.
When he could take his flock again on to the lower lands, in the greyness of dawn, which is the freshest hour at this season, he lost no time in descending the mountain side and making for the moor,
