“At your service, Ors’ Anton’.”
“If you met the gendarmes, they would ask you where you were going. . . .”
“I should tell them,” the child replied, at once, “that I was taking food to the men from Lucca who were cutting down the maquis.”
“And if you came across some hungry hunter who insisted on dining at your expense, and took your provisions away from you?”
“Nobody would dare! I would say they are for my uncle!”
“Well! he’s not the sort of man to let himself be cheated of his dinner! . . . Is your uncle very fond of you?”
“Oh, yes, Ors’ Anton’. Ever since my father died, he has taken care of my whole family—my mother and my little sister, and me. Before mother was ill, he used to recommend her to rich people, who gave her employment. The mayor gives me a frock every year, and the priest has taught me my catechism, and how to read, ever since my uncle spoke to them about us. But your sister is kindest of all to us!”
Just at this moment a dog ran out on the pathway. The little girl put two of her fingers into her mouth and gave a shrill whistle, the dog came to her at once, fawned upon her, and then plunged swiftly into the thicket. Soon two men, ill-dressed, but very well armed, rose up out of a clump of young wood a few paces from where Orso stood. It was as though they had crawled up like snakes through the tangle of cytisus and myrtle that covered the ground.
“Oh, Ors’ Anton’, you’re welcome!” said the elder of the two men. “Why, don’t you remember me?”
“No!” said Orso, looking hard at him.