Meanwhile the knocking continued still more vigorously, but after a little it ceased, and everything became perfectly still. A short time elapsed; then some one again approached the hut; presently the end of a stout stick was thrust under the door, serving as a lever; the frail barrier, secured only by a metal hasp, quickly yielded, and the figure of a woman, with a skirt thrown over her head and shoulders, appeared for a moment in the opening; stepping inside, she turned and replaced the rickety door before Costantino was able to recognise her. There was a moment of breathless silence, during which he could hear his visitor groping her way about, in the pitchy darkness, on the other side of the hut; then she spoke, and he recognised the voice of Aunt Bachissia. "Costantino! Are you there? Where are you? Are you dead or alive? Why don't you answer? Some one said you had not been seen for three days, and that Isidoro Pane was away. I came once before and knocked and knocked, but you wouldn't answer. What's the matter? are you sick?" Still he made no reply, burying his face like a sulky child. "My soul!" moaned the woman, "he must be ill as well." _As well!_ Then some one else was ill! Who, he wondered. Perhaps Giovanna. He listened intently, still keeping his face covered. "He has no fire and no light!" she muttered. "What does it all mean? Wait, I'll strike a light. Where are my matches?" The pale, blue flame of a sulphur match shot up for a moment, and then suddenly died away. Costantino could see nothing, but he heard Aunt Bachissia stumbling her way towards him, moaning: "Costantino, Costantino!" A wave of anger swept over him; he tried to cry out, to rise and fling himself upon her, choke her--but he was powerless. A cold sweat broke out all over him, and he knew that if he attempted so much as to speak, he would burst into tears. How hatefully weak he was! Aunt Bachissia struck another match, and began searching for a light of some sort, but all she could find was a rude iron lamp hanging on a nail, with neither wick nor oil. Then she groped her way to the fireplace, and, stooping down, held out her hand with the lighted match between her fingers. There were the saucepan full of water, the heap of wet ashes, the soaked hearthstone, and beyond, half in the circle of light, the figure of Costantino extended motionless on the pallet. The match flared up and then went out, and all became again perfectly dark and silent. For a moment Aunt Bachissia did not stir; she hardly seemed to breathe; then a long, choking sob broke from her.