"She has no soul!" thought the poor boy. "When I raved, when I rose to the stars and swelled with superhuman joy, she was silent because in her there was emptiness. And I was adoring her silence, and thinking it divine! She spoke only when her senses were awaked. She speaks now because she's menaced with the vulgar annoyance of being given up. She has no soul, no heart! Not one word of pity! Not the modesty to conceal her selfishness. And she's ignorant too. Her letter is copied and recopied, yet even so it's badly expressed. But the last lines--there's her art! She knew the effect they'd produce. She knows me perfectly, and I am only now beginning to understand her. She wants to allure me to the meeting, because she thinks she can intoxicate me. Deceit! deceit! But I see through her now. Ah! not one kind word, not a single generous impulse, nothing! nothing! How horrible!"--(again, he crumpled the letter)--"I hate all women! I shall always hate them! I'll become bad myself! I'll grind you all to powder and spit upon you. I'll make you all suffer! I'll kill you, tear you to pieces! I'll begin this instant!" He took the _rezetta_ still wrapped in the coloured handkerchief, rolled it in a newspaper, sealed and despatched it to Aunt Grathia. "It's all over," he repeated. And he seemed to be walking through emptiness, over the cold clouds as on the ascent of Gennargentu. But now vainly he looked down or around him; there was no path of escape, all was cloud, infinite giddiness. During the day he thought of suicide, a hundred times. He went up and took information as to what examinations and public posts were open to him, and how soon he could present himself as a candidate. He went to the tavern and seeing the handsome Agata (now betrothed to Antonino) he kissed her. Whirlwinds of hate and of love for Margherita shook his soul. The more he read her letter, the more he felt her paltriness; the more he felt himself alienated from her, the more he loved and desired her. Kissing Agata, he remembered what excitement the beautiful peasant's kiss had roused in him on that former occasion. Then Margherita had been so far above him, a whole world of mystery and poetry had divided them; and this same world, fallen to ruins, divided them now. "What's up with you?" asked Agata, making no objection to his kiss. "Have you quarrelled with? What are you kissing me for?" "Because I like it, because you're coarse----" "You've been drinking!" laughed Agata. "Well if that's your fancy in women, you can have Rebecca. But suppose Margherita hears of it----" "Hold your tongue! Don't dare to mention her name!" "Why not? She's going to be my sister-in-law. Is she any different from me? She's a woman like the rest of us. I doubt she's even rich. If she was certain she'd be rich, she'd only keep you on till she found a better match." "If you don't hold your tongue I'll strike you!" said Anania furiously. "Oh, you're drunk! Get away! go to Rebecca!" repeated Agata.