"Era molto bella!" observed one of the bandits behind me.
I looked over my shoulder. The wretch who spoke was a little corpulent man, and reminded me of one of Rubens' satyrs. There was a most revolting leer on his countenance, which suggested to my mind not her death,—which was a mercy,—but the miserable fate that preceded it. I remembered the story of the peasant girl in the Tales of a Traveller, and shuddered.
Turning round again to that iron-visaged wretch, Geronymo, I said to him,
"Have you no remorse, Geronymo, for all the murders you have committed?"
"Remorse!" he replied, as though he did not understand the meaning of the word: "ought not a good soldier to obey the word of command? Whenever the captain said 'Amazza!' amazzava."
"Avete amazzato molte?" I asked.
"Si, signor, moltissime," he replied, with the greatest nonchalance. His eye lighted up, as he spoke, with a gloomy joy.
I turned from him as from a basilisk, and almost thought I heard the death-rattle of one of his victims.
As I was about to leave the Bagno, I met a capuchin, their confessor. It was the same who had persuaded Gasparoni to deliver himself up to the Roman authorities. I took him aside, and entered into conversation with him. He was a man advanced in age, and of a physiognomy such as I have observed to be common to almost all ecclesiastics in Italy,—heavy, dull, and unmeaning. He told me that Gasparoni and most of his band were very religious, and went regularly to mass and confession. He added, that he had petitioned the holy father for their liberation, and that he had no doubt, if released, that they would now make good subjects.