She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood.
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