University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
MOTHER AND SON.

“Ay, ay,” muttered the crone, grumblingly,
as she moved back and forth, “ye may curse,
but curses will never change what's to be.”

“What is that you are saying, old beldam?”
cried Berthold, overhearing his mother's words.
“What's to be, witch?”

“If I am witch, it's the spell of fiends like
you that made me so,” rejoined Monna Barbara,
in a louder voice, and pausing to confront her
brutal son.

“Like dam like cub,” cried Berthold, with his
sneering laugh. “But pretty Valentine is no
fiend at all, I suppose, good witch?”

“Valentine is what he is—and Berthold is
what he is,” answered Monna Barbara. “But,
flesh and blood of mine own, as you are, unnatural
boy, Valentine will put his foot on you,
sometime, I tell ye.”

“Not without this knife-hilt deep in him,”
cried the elder son, with a savage gesture that
made the mother retreat a step. “I know, old
hag, that you favor Valentine more than me, and
have always taken the young man's part against
your first-born. But I'll be even with both of
ye yet, or I'm no witch-born, as the villagers
call me.”

“They call you that, do they?” gasped the
crone, writhing in recollection of the stigma
which had for years clung to her like a pesti
lence, making her as it were a pariah among her
kind. “Well, well,” she continued, sinking her
voice to a low mutter—“It's right—it's right!
ill-blood is in both of us, and man's curses are
not harder to bear than God's malediction.”

“Ill blood in both of us?” repeated Berthold,
catching part of his mother's last speech. “What
do you mean by that? Is there no ill blood in
white-faced Valentine?”

“The blood of the lion is not that of the wolf,
answered Monna Barbara, using one of her customary
figurative expressions.

“Look you, mother of mine,” cried Berthold,
starting from the stool on which he sat, and
striding toward the old woman. “If you like
not to see this baby of yours strangled, some
day or other, you had best keep a quiet tongue
in your mouth about his fine qualities. I doubt
not, if your word could do it, that Valentine
would be lord of the valley, and Berthold goatherd
to his high mightiness—”

“And no more than right,” interrupted Monna
Barbara. But she paused in her speech, as
she noticed the ominous blackening of Berthold's
countenance, and continued in a lower tone;
“What do I get from my eldest but blows and
abuse? Who rates me like a galley-slave, and
calls me `witch,' even as the vile urchins of the

town cry out after me, as I hobble through the
market-place?”

“But who drove the pack of them before his
stout arm, when they would fain have dragged
the `witch,' as they called her, to do penance on
the church stone? Who cudgled the churls of
all the valley, giving no quarter till they promised
to molest his mother no longer? Was it
smooth Valentine, or the ill-blooded dog,
Berthold?”

“Nay, nay, son Berthold, I said not that!
No dog-blood runs in thy vems, Berthold,” cried
the crone, somewhat mollified by the recollection
of her son's prowess in protecting her from
the superstitious violence of the villagers. “But
thy harshness sometimes makes me forgetful of
speech.”

“And who,” resumed Berthold, heedless of the
crone's interruption—“who searched for you
from sun to vespers, when you were lost in the
great snows—bawling his throat hoarse, and
straining foot and hand, till he found you half-buried,
and ready to perish at the bottom of the
`Smuggler's Gulch?' Was it Valentine or
Berthold?”

“No more, no more, son Berthold! You are
my child, whom I love, in spite of all things,”
exclaimed Monna Barbara. “It is bad blood
only that keeps us in trouble, for I warrant thou
wouldst not see thy old mother harmed by
strangers, quarrel as thou wilt with her
thyself!”

“Not I,” cried the son, with an oath. “But,
when the youngster Valentine—”

“Let us speak no more of him,” said Monna
Barbara. “He'll not be back to-night, so break
bread in peace, I pray thee, Berthold, and let us
forget the bad humor of both of us.”

So saying, the mother began to take out with
a wooden spoon, from a pot at the fire, the quazetto,
which it contained—a mixture of meat,
onions and vegetables, such as the French call
pot-pourri, and, with the addition of garlie, the
Spanish peasants convert into their ollapodrida.

The savory cloud of steam which soon filled
the hut, grateful to a sharpened appetite, began
to exercise a benignant influence upon the evil
temper of the young man, and in a few moments,
with the frown banished from his forehead, he
became basily occupied in discussing the merits
of Monna Barbara's cookery.

The old woman did not partake of the repast,
but contented herself with serving the quazetto
and black bread to her son, and setting before
him an earthen bottle of thin wine; after
which she retired to her corner near the hearth,
where was a nook shaded by the abutting stone
which formed a portion of the fire-place, and
there, seating herself on a low block of wood,
let drop her head into her hands, and watched
her son, as he plied his vigorous appetite.

Berthold, on his part, seemed to take no further
notice of his mother's presence, proceeding to
despatch his meal, till the mess of stew was sensibly
diminished, and no crust of bread remained
upon the table. Then lifting the jar of wine, he
satisfied his thirst with a long draught.

Apparently this indulgence had restored to
him his good humor, for as he rose from the
table he said mildly to Monna Barbara:

“Good mother, I am now going to take a
short walk, as I have a little business on hand
to-night. So when you choose, you may go to
rest, and leave me to come home when I am
ready.”

“You had better remain home, Berthold,”
replied Monna Barbara; “I like not both of
you away all the long hours; and besides, an
evil boding is upon my mind to-night, as if danger
threatened the household.”

“Take your beads, then, and pray, for I must
even be away, in spite of all presentiments of
danger. Belike a prayer or two might not be
amiss for either of us.”

“There is indeed need of prayer for both, son
Berthold,” said the mother. “Need that you
wot not of. But, get ye gone, if you will. My
beads may as well be counted without you.”

Berthold shrugged his broad shoulders, as the
crone proceeded to remove the remains of his
supper; but he said no more, till he had attired
himself in a heavy cape of skin and woollen
scarf, such as had been donned by Valentine ere
he departed, and grasped his staff, preparatory
to leaving the hut. Then, turning toward Monna
Barbara, he asked:

“Do you recollect, mother, what our Valentine
said to Nicolo, when I bade the old man take
care of harm from him?”

“The boy meant nothing by his words,” rejoined
Monna Barbara.

“Ay, you'll take part with him, no doubt
Nevertheless, you heard as well as I, that Valentine
threatened old Nicolo that he should `repent
his words.' Mischief was meant there, good
mother, I'll warrant me!”

Then with his usual scornful laugh, he hurried
away from the hovel.