"He is going to get me a position; yes, I really mean to go. But tell me why is it that the priest is so anxious for it? Is he afraid that I will kill Brontu Dejas?" "Yes, he is. He's afraid of just that." "No, he's not; that's not it. I said to him: 'Priest Elias, you must know perfectly well that if I had wanted to kill any one, I would have done it right off.' And all he said was: 'Go away, go away! It would be far better.' What do you think about it, Uncle Fisherman; shall I go or not?" "I don't think anything about it," answered the other in a tone of strong disapproval. "What I do think is that you are an idle dog. Why aren't you at work, tell me that? It's because you do nothing but think all the time of your good-for-nothing Burrai, who, however, never gives you a thought." "Oh! he doesn't give me a thought?" said Costantino, piqued. "Well, I'll just let you see whether he does or not. Look here!" He drew a letter from the inside pocket of his coat, and proceeded to read it aloud. It was from Burrai, written at Rome, where the ex-marshal had opened a little shop for the sale of Sardinian wines. Naturally, being himself, he had improved upon the facts, and announced that he was the proprietor of a large and flourishing establishment; he invited Costantino to pay him a visit, and reproached him for not having come at once to Rome, where, he said, he could find him a position without difficulty. The fisherman's blue eyes grew round with innocent wonder. "To think, only to think!" he exclaimed. "And you never told me a word about it! What made you hide the letter? How much does it cost to go to Rome?" "Oh! only about fifty lire." "And have you got that much?" "Why, of course I have!" "Then go, go by all means!" exclaimed the old man, stretching his arms out towards the horizon. They were both silent for a moment. The fisherman, bending his head, gazed at the pebbles lying at his feet, while Costantino stared absently ahead of him. Beyond the brook, the tall, yellow, meadow-grass was bowing in the wind, and the long stems of the golden oats rippled against the blue background of the sky. Uncle Isidoro made up his mind that the moment had come to tell Costantino plainly why all his friends wanted him to leave the village. "Giovanna," he began quietly, "does not love her husband; you and she might meet----" "She and I might meet? Well, and if we did, what then?" "Nothing; you might, that's all." "Oh, nothing!" cried Costantino, and his voice rang out scornfully in the profound stillness; "nothing! I tell you that I despise that low woman. I don't want her." "You don't want her, and yet you hang about her house all the time, like a fly about the honey-pot." "Ah, you know about that?" said Costantino, somewhat crestfallen. "It's not true, though,--well--yes; perhaps it is. But suppose I do hang about her house, what business is it of yours?" "Oh! none at all, but--you had better go away."