He opened the door; in the dim light he saw, or half saw, a tall figure not dressed in the costume of the country, but wearing a fustian coat as hard and stiff as leather, out of which emerged a long, pallid face. He did not know who it was. Costantino burst into a harsh laugh, and the fisherman, with a pang, recognised his friend. Yes, at last; it was Costantino come back, but in that very first moment he knew it was not the Costantino of other days. He threw his arms around him, but without kissing him, and his heart melted into tears. "Well, you didn't know me, after all," said Costantino, unstrapping his wallet. "I knew you wouldn't." Even his voice and accent were strange; and now, after his first sensations, first of chill and then of pity, Isidoro felt a sort of diffidence. "What are you dressed that way for?" he asked. "If you had let me know I would have brought you your clothes to Nuoro, and a horse too. Did you come all the way on foot?" "No; San Francisco lent me a horse. What are you about, Uncle Isidoro? I don't want any coffee. Have you got any brandy?" The fisherman, who had begun to uncover the fire, got up from his knees, embarrassed and mortified at having nothing better to offer his guest than a little coffee. "I didn't know," he stammered, spreading out his hands, "but just wait a moment, I'll go right off--you see I expected you, and I didn't expect you----" And he started for the door. "Stop; where are you going?" cried the other, seizing hold of him. "I don't want anything at all. I only said it for a joke. Sit down here." Isidoro seated himself, and began to look furtively at Costantino; little by little he grew more at ease with him, and presently passing his hand over his trousers he asked if he intended to go on dressing that way. In the early morning light streaming through the open door, Costantino's face looked worn and grey. "Yes," he said, with another of those disagreeable laughs, "I am going on dressing this way. I am going away soon." "Going away soon! Where to?" "Oh! I have met so many people," began Costantino, in the tone of one reciting a lesson. "And I have friends who will help me. What is there for me to do here, anyhow?" "Why, shoemaking! Didn't you write to me that that was what you wanted to do?" "I know a marshal named Burrai," continued Costantino, who always thought of the _King of Spades_ as still holding office. "He lives in Rome now, and he's written me a letter; he's going to get me a position in the King's household to be shoemaker." Isidoro looked at him pitifully. "Ah, the poor fellow, he was altogether different. What made him talk like that, and tell all those foolish little things when there were such heartrending topics to discuss." Thus Uncle Isidoro to his own heart.