They were but twelve and ten years old, but they could fight already, in
their small way, and had tried it many a time with shepherd lads on the
hill-side. But Don Pietro despised children and aimed a blow at
Ruggiero's right shoulder. The blow did not take effect, but a moment
had not passed before the old peasant lay sprawling on his back with
both the boys on top of him.
"You cannot hurt the mother now," said Ruggiero. "Hit him as I do,
Bastianello!"
And the four bony boyish fists fell in a storm of savage blows upon Don
Pietro Casale's leathern face and eyes and head and thin grey lips.
"That is for the mother," said Ruggiero. "Another fifty a-piece for
ourselves."
The wiry old peasant struggled desperately, and at last threw himself
free of them and staggered to his feet.
"Quick, Bastianello!" shouted Ruggiero.
In the twinkling of an eye they were over the fence and running at full
speed for the valley. Don Pietro bruised, dazed and half-blinded,
struggled after them, crashing through hedges and stumbling into ditches
while he shouted for help in his pursuit. But his heavy shoes hampered
him, and at best he was no match for them in speed.
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