to a plighted word through good and ill, and when he swore on his Madonnina abode by his oath, whether it were for blood-guiltiness or for the sparing of blood.
'She is Saturnino's own child,' thought Joconda. She was his child. To the mind of Joconda that one fact made this calm young life seem like a fair garden outspread on a volcano's side. There were the budding lilies indeed, and the half-shut roses, but there was the lava stream beneath them that any day might rise in fire.
'If only I could be always here,' she thought, poor soul, fancying that she would find some force to stay the lava with the uplifted crucifix. But she knew she could not be always here; she was eighty-six years old this brilliant day of San Zenone, when the light and the fragrance of spring were beautiful, even in cursed Maremma.
When Musa was asleep that night and all the little place was still, Joconda, behind her barred shutters and bolted doors, by the light of her lantern looked at her little hoard, which was kept under a stone in the paved floor of her kitchen.
She counted it. It was but little, though the fancy of Santa Tarsilla made it much.
