Joconda had often dreaded the question that sooner or later was sure to come.
'Your father is dead,' she answered.
'Dead in the sea?' said the child.
People were so often killed by the sea in Santa Tarsilla.
'Yes,' said Joconda, and she looked over to the north where she knew that the isle of Gorgona rose from the waves.
'Did he go to fish?' asked the child.
'No, dear,' said Joconda, with a pang at her heart. 'No, dear; he was a mountaineer, he lived up yonder; in the hills; do not vex your soul over that, child; it is of no use.'
The child did not understand, nor did she give much heed; her grave straight brows were drawn together in thought, and her curved rosy lips were shut fast.
'I think I do remember him,' she said at last very slowly. 'I remember him kissing me, and he had something cold and bright that hurt me, and he put it away, and then there were smoke, and screaming, and shots, and I crept under Leone's stomach and hid. I do remember.'
'You dreamt that, baby,' said Joconda harshly, because she was pained; 'the cold bright thing' that had hurt her must have
