One evening at about dusk, while the fisherman was preparing his supper, he heard sounds in the direction of this mound, and went to the door to see what they were. The weather was cold, and in the clear, greenish twilight he saw a group of black figures, chiefly women, advancing, singing to the accompaniment of some instrument. Isidoro understood what it was and went to meet them. The women, about twenty in all, old and young, were chanting in a melancholy monotone, with sudden breaks and changes, a weird song or exorcism against the bite of a tarantula; while a blind beggar, a pallid young man, miserably clad in soiled and ragged woman's clothing, accompanied them on a primitive instrument called a _serraia_--a sort of cithern, made out of a dried sow's bladder. There were only three other men in the party, and in one of these, with a flushed, feverish face, and one hand bound up, the fisherman recognised Giacobbe Dejas. Isidoro advanced, and joining the party laid one finger on the bandaged hand, Giacobbe, meanwhile, gazing at him wildly, his eyes transfixed with terror. "Are you afraid you are going to die from a tarantula bite? No, no," said Isidoro, smiling. The women continued their chant. There were seven widows, seven wives, and seven maids. One of the widows was Giacobbe's sister. She walked at his side, fresh and pink as ever, notwithstanding her wild state of alarm and anxiety; and her shrill little voice, like the note of a lively cricket, trilled and trembled high above all the others. "He is suffering," said one of the men to Isidoro in a low tone. "Ah?" said the fisherman gravely. The words chanted by the women ran as follows: "Saint Peter he walked down to the sea And into the water his keys dropped he. Then the Lord unto him did say: 'My Peter, what is it ails thee to-day?' 'Of deadly bites I bear the smart In my two feet, and my back, and my heart.' 'Peter, take of the sad thorn-tree[7] Pounded as fine as fine may be; Take it three days for thy wound. So shall Peter be made sound.' Tarantula, with the painted belly, You have a daughter straitly born, Straitly is your daughter born. One for the mountain I leave forlorn; One for the mountain, and one for the valley. You have killed me, and I will kill you."