Ah, Dejas! accursed race! Yes, now the old mother as well was included in his hatred of that house, and the longing to cross the common, fling himself on the portico, and make the still summer evening resound with her shrill screams of agony, at last overmastered him. With a sudden movement, right in the middle of one of Aunt Bachissia's sentences, he stepped out into the twilight, and with rapid strides began to cross the common. When he had gone about half-way, he stopped, stood motionless for a moment, and then, altering his direction, walked away. Aunt Bachissia watched his figure as it was slowly swallowed up by the shadows; and the silence and languor of the dusk deepened into night. After that evening Costantino visited her cottage no more. * * * * * One day, towards the end of October, Uncle Isidoro Pane had an unexpected visitor. The old fisherman, seated before his fireplace, was getting supper ready for himself and Costantino, who still made his home with him. Outside, the air felt almost cold, the wind was rising, and long, violet-coloured clouds were flying across the clear, greenish, western sky. Uncle Isidoro was thinking sadly of that evening when, amid the chanting of the women, they had interred Giacobbe Dejas in the dungheap. The earthen pot bubbled on the fire, and from without came the melancholy rustling of the fig-tree and the bushes, shaken by the wind. All at once a low knock came on the door. "Who is there?" asked Uncle Isidoro. "_Ave Maria!_" The salutation came from Aunt Martina Dejas, who now, after satisfying herself that the old man was entirely alone, entered and cautiously closed the door behind her. "Oh, Martina! _Grazia plena!_" responded the fisherman, astonished to see who his visitor was. Her head and shoulders were completely enveloped in a petticoat worn in lieu of a shawl; her features were paler and more gaunt even than ordinary, and to Isidoro she seemed to have aged greatly. "Sit down, Martina Dejas," said he politely, offering her a stool. "What good wind blows you here?" "It's an ill wind," she replied. Then, looking all around her, she said: "I want to talk to you privately; can any one hear us? Where is _he_?" "Still at the shop; he does not get back till later." "Listen," said the old woman, seating herself; "you can probably guess what it is that brings me here?" "No, I cannot guess, Martina Dejas," declared the other, though all the time he knew very well. "But why didn't you send for me? I would have gone to your house." "At my house there is some one who has the ears of a hare; she can hear through a stone wall. Now, listen--I don't suppose I have to make you promise not to tell any one? You wouldn't betray my confidence, would you?" "I will not betray you." "You are a man of the Lord, Isidoro Pane; a very dreadful thing has happened; will you help me to set it right?" "If I can," he said, spreading out his arms and hands. "Tell me about it!"