to a confused murmur of growls. Somebody ran along; the loud catching of
his breath was heard for an instant passing the door; there were hoarse
mutters and footsteps near the wall; a shoulder rubbed against the
shutter, effacing the bright lines of sunshine pencilled across the
whole breadth of the room. Signora Teresa's arms thrown about the
kneeling forms of her daughters embraced them closer with a convulsive
pressure.

The mob, driven away from the Custom House, had broken up into several
bands, retreating across the plain in the direction of the town. The
subdued crash of irregular volleys fired in the distance was answered by
faint yells far away. In the intervals the single shots rang feebly, and
the low, long, white building blinded in every window seemed to be
the centre of a turmoil widening in a great circle about its closed-up
silence. But the cautious movements and whispers of a routed party
seeking a momentary shelter behind the wall made the darkness of the
room, striped by threads of quiet sunlight, alight with evil, stealthy
sounds. The Violas had them in their ears as though invisible ghosts
hovering about their chairs had consulted in mutters as to the
advisability of setting fire to this foreigner's casa.

It was trying to the nerves. Old Viola had risen slowly, gun in hand,
irresolute, for he did not see how he could prevent them. Already voices
could be heard talking at the back. Signora Teresa was beside herself
with terror.

"Ah! the traitor! the traitor!" she mumbled, almost inaudibly. "Now we
are going to be burnt; and I bent my knee to him. No! he must run at the
heels of his English."