'Oh, the hard pity of it!' mourned the gossips with a wail.
'He has got his deserts,' said Joconda. 'A fine long time he has been loose on these hills. Luck always changes.'
'It was that foreign man that made the fuss,' the women muttered. 'He must have been some great prince, else never would they have captured Saturnino for his misfortune.'
'Misfortune' was their fine way of speaking; they knew well that the traveller had been foully murdered.
'He killed the foreigner,' said Joconda curtly. 'He had killed scores. That one was the one too much. That was all.'
The women at the window muttered that this was just the caprice and injustice of the government and the soldiers; a murder more or less (if it were a murder), did it matter so much? Saturnino was a fine bold man, and never had harmed the poor.
'Why, he had good about him,' assented Joconda. 'But murder is not a good thing; I wish he had had other ways of living. Alas! poor soul! upon that rock of Gorgona his crimes will be cold comfort to him.'
