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On the campsite was a huge statue of the Virgin Mary enclosed in a hand-carved dark wooden shrine. Fissolini was devout in spite of his ferocity. He also had a natural peasant courtesy and presented himself to the Don and the boy. There was no doubt he was chief of the band. He was short and built powerfully as a gorilla, and he carried a rifle and two guns on his body belt. His face was as stony as Sicily, but there was a merry twinkle in his eyes. He enjoyed life and its little jokes, especially that he held in his power a rich American worth his weight in gold. And yet there was no malice in him.
    “Excellency,” he said to the Don, “I don’t want you to worry about this young lad. He will carry the ransom note to town tomorrow morning.”
    Astorre was eating lustily. He had never tasted anything so delicious as this grilled lamb. But he finally spoke up with cheerful bravery. “I’m staying with my Uncle Raymonde,” he said.
    Fissolini laughed. “Good food gives courage. To show my respect for His Excellency I prepared this meal myself. I used my mother’s special spices.”
    “I’m staying with my uncle,” Astorre said, and his voice rang out clear, defiant.
    Don Aprile said to Fissolini sternly yet kindly, “It’s been a wonderful night—the food, the mountain air, your company. I look forward to the fresh dew in the country. But then I advise you to bring me back to my village.”
    Fissolini bowed to him respectfully. “I know that you are rich. But are you that powerful? I am only going to ask for one hundred thousand dollars in American money.”
    “That insults me,” the Don said. “You will injure my reputation. Double it. And another fifty for the boy. It will be paid. But then your life will be an eternal misery.” He paused for a moment. “I’m astonished you could be so rash.”
    Fissolini sighed. “You must understand, Excellency, I am a poor man. Certainly I can take what I want in my province, but Sicily is such a cursed country that the rich are too poor to support men like myself. You must understand that you are the chance to make my fortune.”
    “Then you should have come to me to offer your services,” the Don said. “I always have use for a talented man.”
    “You say that now because you are weak and helpless,” Fissolini said. “The weak are always so generous. But I will follow your advice and ask double. Though I feel a little guilty about that. No human is worth so much. And I will let the boy go free. I have a weakness for children—I have four of my own whose mouths I must feed.”
    Don Aprile looked at Astorre. “Will you go?”
    “No,” Astorre said, lowering his head. “I want to be with you.” He raised his eyes and looked at his uncle.
    “Then let him stay,” the Don said to the bandit.
    Fissolini shook his head. “He goes back. I have a reputation to keep. I will not be known as a kidnapper of children. Because after all, Your Excellency, though I have the utmost respect, I will have to send you back piece by piece if they do not pay. But if they do, I give you the word of honor of Pietro Fissolini, not a hair of your mustache will be touched.”
    “The money will be paid,” the Don said calmly. “And now let us make the best of things. Nephew, sing one of your songs for these gentlemen.”
    Astorre sang to the bandits, who were enchanted and complimented him, ruffling his hair affectionately. Indeed it was a magical moment for all of them, the child’s sweet voice filling the mountains with songs of love.
    Blankets and sleeping bags were brought out of a nearby cave.
    Fissolini said, “Your Excellency, what would you like for breakfast tomorrow? Some fish, fresh from the water perhaps? Then some spaghetti and veal for lunch? We are at your service.”
    “I thank you,” the Don said. “A bit of cheese and fruit will be enough.”
    “Sleep well,” Fissolini said. He was softened by the boy’s look of unhappiness, and he patted Astorre on the