"But what was their father?" asked Olì.
"Well," said the widow, not changing her voice, but with some animation on her spectral countenance, "he was a robber. For ten years he was a robber—yes, ten. He took to the country a few months after our wedding. I used to go and visit him up there on the mountain of Gennargentu. He hunted eagles and vultures and strayed sheep. Every time I went to see him we used to roast a good haunch of mutton. We slept out of doors, in the wind, on the tops of the mountains. We covered ourselves with that cloak, and my husband's hands were always burning even when it snowed. He kept company with——"
"With whom?" asked Olì, forgetting her own troubles. The child was listening too, his great ears pricked till he seemed a hare listening to the voice of a distant fox.
"Oh, well, with other robbers. They were all most intelligent men, sharp, active, ready for anything, ready especially for death. Do you suppose brigands are bad folk? You are wrong, my dear sister. They are men who live by their wits, that's all. My husband used to say, 'In the old days men made war on each other; that's over now, but they still need to fight. They organize thefts, highway robberies, bardanas,[6] not to do harm, but to make use of their ability and strength.'"
"A fine sort of ability!" said Olì; "why don't they knock their heads against a wall if they've nothing to do?"
"You don't understand, my daughter," said the widow, proud and sad; "it's all a matter of Fate. If you like, I will tell you how my husband made himself a brigand." She said "made himself a brigand" with great dignity.
"Yes, tell me," answered Olì, shuddering a little. The shadows had grown denser; the wind howled with a continuous thunder rumble; they seemed in a hurricane-pervaded forest. The words, the cadaverous face of the woman in that black surrounding, now and then momently illuminated by a flash of livid flame, excited Olì to a childish voluptuousness of terror. She seemed involved in one of those fearful legends which Anania used to relate for her little brothers; and she herself, she with her infinite wretchedness, was a part of the hideous story.
The widow went on—
"We had been married a few months. We were well off, my dear. We had corn, potatoes, chestnuts, vines, land, houses, a dog, and a horse. My husband was a landowner. But often he had nothing to do, and then he got bored. He used to say, 'I must set up a shop, I can't stand this idleness. When I'm idle I get bad thoughts.' But we hadn't capital enough to start a shop. Then one day a friend said to him, 'Zuanne Atonzu, will you join in a bardana? There'll be a lot of us, and a clever fellow as guide, and we're going to a distant village to attack the house of a man who has three chests of money and silver. The man who's to show the way came here to Capo di Sopra[7] on purpose to tell us of it and to suggest a bard. We've got to cross mountains, rivers, and forests. Come with us.' My husband told me of the invitation. 'Well,' I said, 'what do you want with the rich man's silver?' He answered, 'I snap my fingers at the trifle I may get of the booty; but I like the idea of mountains and forests and new things to see. I'm curious to know how they manage these bardanas, and there'll be plenty of other fellows going just to show their pluck and to pass the time. Isn't it worse to have me sit in the tavern and get drunk?' I cried, I implored," said the widow, twisting her thread with her skinny finger and following the motion of her spindle with hollow eyes, "I supplicated, but he went. He gave out he was gone to Cagliari on business; but he went on the bardana. I stayed at home, for I was in the family way. Afterwards he told me all about it. There were about sixty of them, and they travelled in little groups, meeting at appointed places to consult. Corleddu was the captain, a Goliath, strong as the lightning, with eyes of fire and his chest covered with red hair. For the first few days there was rain, hurricanes were unchained, torrents rose in flood, one of the company was struck by a thunderbolt. They marched at night by torchlight. At last they reached a forest near the mountain of the Seven Brothers. There the Captain said, 'Brethren, the signs of the sky are not propitious. The affair will go badly. Moreover, I smell treachery. I believe our guide is a spy. Let us disband; and put the thing off for another time.' Many approved, but Pilatu Barras, the robber from Orani, (his nose had been shot off and lie wore a silver one) got up and said, 'Brothers in God' (he always used that expression), 'I can't have this. Rain is no sign that heaven is against us. On the contrary annoyances are good, and teach the young to put off softness. If the guide betrays us, we'll kill him. Come on, donkeys!' Corleddu shook his head, and another cried out, 'Pilatu can't smell!' Then Barras shouted, 'Brothers in God, it is dogs who smell, not Christians. My nose is of silver and can't smell, but yours is a bone of the dead! What I say is that if we disband, we smell of cowardice. There are young men among us on their first expedition. If you send them away, they'll go back to sit by the ashes of their hearths, idle, and good for nothing. Come on, donkeys!' They went on. Corleddu was right, the guide was a traitor. Soldiers were waiting in the rich man's house. There was a fight and many of the robbers were wounded; others were recognized, one was killed. Lest he should be recognized, his comrades stripped him, cut off his head, and buried it and his clothes far away in the forest. My husband was recognized, so after that he had to become a bandit. I lost my baby."
The widow had stopped spinning, her spindle fell on her lap and she spread out her hands to the fire. Olì shuddered with cold, with horror, with a fearful pleasure. How dreadful, how poetic, was all this the widow was telling! Olì had always imagined robbers were wicked. No, they were brave, wise, pushed by destiny; just as she herself was being pushed——