The Children of the King | Page 7

have said that he was a man of
few words. But the Children of the King were not like Calabrian boys,
children though they were. Their wolfish teeth were very white as they
waited for him with parted lips, and there was an odd blue light in their
eyes which is not often seen south of Goth-land.
They were but twelve and ten years old, but they could fight already, in
their small way, and had tried it many a time with shepherd lads on the
hill-side. But Don Pietro despised children and aimed a blow at
Ruggiero's right shoulder. The blow did not take effect, but a moment
had not passed before the old peasant lay sprawling on his back with
both the boys on top of him.
"You cannot hurt the mother now," said Ruggiero. "Hit him as I do,
Bastianello!"
And the four bony boyish fists fell in a storm of savage blows upon
Don Pietro Casale's leathern face and eyes and head and thin grey lips.
"That is for the mother," said Ruggiero. "Another fifty a-piece for
ourselves."
The wiry old peasant struggled desperately, and at last threw himself
free of them and staggered to his feet.

"Quick, Bastianello!" shouted Ruggiero.
In the twinkling of an eye they were over the fence and running at full
speed for the valley. Don Pietro bruised, dazed and half-blinded,
struggled after them, crashing through hedges and stumbling into
ditches while he shouted for help in his pursuit. But his heavy shoes
hampered him, and at best he was no match for them in speed. His face
was covered with purple blotches and his eyelids were swelling at a
terrible rate. Out of breath and utterly worn out he stood still and
steadied himself against a crooked olive-tree. He could no longer hear
even the footsteps of the lads before him.
They were beyond his reach now. The last of the Children of the King
had left Verbicaro, where their fathers had lived and died since darker
ages than Calabrian history has accurately recorded.

CHAPTER II.
"We shall never see him again," said Ruggiero, stopping at last and
looking back over the stone wall he had just cleared.
Sebastiano listened intently. He was not tall enough to see over, but his
ears were sharp.
"I do not hear him any more," he answered. "I hurt my hands on his
nose," he added, thoughtfully, as he glanced at his bruised knuckles.
"So did I," returned his brother. "He will remember us. Come along--it
is far to Scalea."
"To Scalea? Are we going to Scalea?"
"Eh! If not, where? And where else can we eat? Don Antonino will
give us a piece of bread."
"There are figs here," suggested Sebastiano, looking up into the trees
around them.

"It has not rained yet, and if you eat figs from the tree before it has
rained you will have pain. But if we are very hungry we will eat them,
all the same."
Little Sebastiano yielded rather reluctantly before his brother's superior
wisdom. Besides, Padre Michele had given them a little cold bean
porridge at the monastery early in the morning. So they went on their
way cautiously, and looking about them at every step now that there
was no more need of haste. For they had got amongst the vineyards and
orchards where they had no business, and if the peasants saw them, the
stones would begin to fly. They knew their way about, however, and
reached an open footpath without any adventure, so that in half an hour
they were on the mule track to Scalea. They walked much faster than a
grown peasant would have done, and they knew the road. Instead of
turning to the left after going down the hill beyond the tower, they took
the right hand path to the Scalea river, and as it had not rained they got
across without getting very wet. But that road is not so good as the one
to Diamante, because the river is sometimes swollen, and people with
laden mules have to wait even as much as three days before they can
try the ford, and moreover there is bad air there, which brings fever.
At last they struck the long beach and began to trudge through the sand.
"And what shall we do to-morrow?" asked Sebastiano.
Ruggiero was whistling loudly to show his younger brother that he was
not tired nor afraid of anything. At the question he stopped suddenly,
and faced the blazing blue sea.
"We can go to America," he said, after a moment's reflection.
Little Sebastiano did not seem at all surprised by the proposition, but he
remained in deep thought for some moments, stamping up a little
hillock of sand between his bare feet.
"We are