in such a strait as this, all such aid as he could have from heaven.
His great black eyes were sombre and terrible; his dark locks hung to his throat, slightly curling, for he had been vain of his good looks; his lips were rich and red; his features straight and handsome; his brow was low, his chest and his limbs were massive. He was the true robber-chief of romance.
Who could say what blood ran in his veins? His name was the old Etruscan name that had once been that of Servius Tullius; he had been the son of wild mountain hunters; who could say what blood of omnipotent Lucumo, of aruspex weighted with the secrets of the stars, of languid and luxurious Lydian, of lustful lord of Sardis, might not be in him, hot and cruel and lascivious? The Etruscan name had been his forefathers' for hundreds of years counted on the hills.
'Is that truly Saturnino who is taken?' asked an old woman on the edge of the piazza, a tall gaunt woman with blue eyes and snow-white hair, who had a different accent and look to those of the crowd.
'Aye, mother, that it is,' the man nearest to her answered sorrowfully.
