So they did talk of something else, still in the Sardinian dialect, so as not to be understood by the other prisoners. They talked of the consumptive student, who was drawing visibly nearer to the door of the other world; of Arnolfo Bellini, who began to sob whenever his eye fell on the dying man; of the _Delegate_, whom they could see pacing back and forth by the fountain; of the magpie, who was growing feeble, and losing all his feathers, from old age. Gossip, envy, hatred, identical interests, cowardice, raillery, fear--such were the bonds which united or kept apart the different members of the little community--prisoners, guards, and officials alike. To Costantino they were all equally objects of indifference; he, the _Delegate_, and the student seeming to live apart in a little world of their own, with the ex-marshal--the pivot about which every detail in the prisoners' lives seemed to revolve; he, meanwhile, appearing to be as superior as he was necessary to them all. Many envied the friendly intercourse existing between Costantino and him, and frequently the former would be implored to use his influence with the _King of Spades_ to procure some favour. He merely shrugged his shoulders on such occasions, though, when they offered him money, as sometimes happened, he was sorely tempted to take it, so intense was his longing to be able to support Giovanna; he had no other idea. The _King of Spades_, with his eternal insinuations that cut like knives, was becoming more and more hateful to him. One day they actually quarrelled, and for some time did not speak to one another. But Costantino could not stand it; he felt as though he should suffocate, as though he had been shut up in a cell, and cut off from all communication with the outer world. He soon apologised and begged for a reconciliation. The autumn drew on; the air grew cool, and the sky became a delicate, velvety blue, distant, unreal, dreamlike. Sometimes the breeze would waft a perfume of ripening fruit into the prison enclosure. Costantino was less acutely miserable, but he had sunk into a state of settled melancholy; he grew thinner and thinner, and deprived himself continually of things which he stood in need of in order to have more money to send to Giovanna. The other prisoners all received presents of some sort from their friends and relatives; he alone denied himself even the little pittance he was able to earn. "I don't understand it," said the ex-marshal to him one day. "Your complexion is pink and you look younger than you did when you came, and yet you are almost transparent."