Sometimes Costantino would flush violently, and the blood would rush to his head; then he would be utterly prostrated, and in his weakness he would suffer more from homesickness than he had done even in the first year of his imprisonment. He would see before him the boundless sweep of the uplands, sleeping in the autumnal haze, glowing and yellow beneath the crystal sky; he would get the breath of the vineyards, the scent of such late-maturing fruits as flourish in that land of flocks and beehives; images would rise before him of the foxes and hares, the wild birds and cattle, the hedges thick with blackberries, all the hundred and one natural objects which had constituted the sole element of enjoyment in his otherwise miserable and barren childhood. Then his thoughts would turn to his uncle, the cruel old Vulture who, having tormented him in his lifetime, seemed able to torment him still. An impulse of bitter hatred would rise up in his heart, only to be repressed, on remembering that he was dead, and succeeded by a prayer for the murdered man's soul. There was no one else whom he was even tempted to hate, no one at all; not even the real murderer, or Brontu Dejas--who, in fact, had as yet given him no cause for complaint--or the _King of Spades_, though he subjected him to this continual martyrdom. Indeed, it hardly seemed as though he had sufficient strength effectually to hate any one. A feeling of gentle melancholy pervaded him, a sort of numbness like that of a person about to fall asleep; his only sensation was one of tender, pitiful, passionless love; as tranquil, as mild and all-embracing as an autumnal sky, and having for its one object--Giovanna. She was a part of the love itself, and waking or sleeping, he thought only of her, only of her, only of her. As time went on this love became more and more engrossing; she came to represent the far-off home, family, liberty--life itself. All, all, was comprehended in her: hope, faith, endurance, peace, the very love of life! She became his soul. When the inexorable _King of Spades_ threatened him with _that horrible thing_, he did not know it, but it was the death of his soul that he was holding over him. For the certainty of not losing Giovanna, Costantino would gladly have agreed to pass forty years in prison; and, at the same time, he panted for his freedom precisely in order that he might not lose her. During the winter that followed, he suffered intensely from cold; his face and nails were livid, and during the exercise hour, even when he stood in the sun, his teeth chattered like those of an old man. He asked often to confess, and confided all his troubles to the young chaplain. "Who puts such ideas as these into your head, my son?" asked the confessor, his dark eyes flashing. "A fellow-countryman of mine, the ex-marshal--Burrai. The _King of Spades_ they call him."