seto, from north to south, impassable, and the carabiniers had had their orders to ride with him through the twenty odd miles that were under water. It was thought well that the folk of Grosseto, whose traders were suspected of collusion with the brigand, by the purchase of many of his stolen treasures, should see the famous marauder in this sorry plight in their streets. Further south, such a spectacle would have provoked a rescue, or at least a riot; but, in Grosseto, blood ran more quietly and more soberly, and the multitude waiting there only muttered a curse or two as the little troop of horsemen passed out of the court of the prison and came in sight.
With his legs tied beneath his horse, Grosseto saw its fallen hero.
He was in his own mountaineer's dress, a sheepskin jacket, breeches of untanned leather, a sash of brilliant crimson, weather stained, a broad-leafed hat with golden tassels, and in its band a little gold image of Our Lady. At his throat, too, was a Madonnina. His pistols, his knife, his earrings, they had taken away from him; but these little images his captors had left him, from a charitable feeling that it was as well to leave the man,
