"Why, nothing happened. He called out, and that was all. May be he had a bad dream. We'll give him a drink of water. There now, here's a little fresh water. That's it, he wants it--see how he is drinking! You were thirsty, weren't you? It's the fever, you see; that's what ails him!"

Giacobbe sat up in bed, and after drinking the water calmed down. He had on an old white knitted cotton shirt, through which could be seen the outline of his small wiry body, the thick growth of black hair on his chest contrasting oddly with the perfectly smooth face and bald head above it. He remained in a sitting posture, leaning forward, and thoughtfully pa.s.sing his well hand up and down the injured arm.

"Yes," he remarked suddenly in the panting, querulous tone of a person with fever. "Yes; I had a bad dream. Whew! but it was hot! Holy San Costantino, how hot it was! I was dreaming of h.e.l.l."

"Dear me, dear me, what an idea!" said his sister reprovingly; and Uncle Isidoro said playfully: "And so it was hot, little spring bird?"

The sick man seemed to be annoyed.

"Don't joke, and don't say 'little spring bird.' I don't like it; I shall never say it again, and I shall never laugh at any one again.

"Listen to me," he said, bending forward and continuing to rub his arm.

"h.e.l.l is a dreadful place. I've got to die, and I've got to tell you something first. Now listen, but don't get frightened, Anna-Rosa, because I am certainly going to die; and Uncle Isidoro, you know it already, so I can tell you. Well, this is it. It was I who killed Basile Ledda."

Aunt Anna-Rosa's eyes and mouth flew wide open; she leaned against the side of the bed, and began to shake convulsively.

"_I_ knew it already?" exclaimed Isidoro. "Why, I knew nothing at all!"

Giacobbe raised a terrified face, and began to tremble as well.

"Don't have me arrested," he implored. "I'm going to die, anyhow; you can tell them then. I thought you knew. What is the matter, Anna-Ro?

Don't be frightened; don't have me arrested."

"It's not that," she said, raising herself. Her first sensation of having received a blow on the head was pa.s.sing away, but now, in its place, there came a singular feeling of some change that was taking place within her; her own spirit seemed to have fled in dismay, and in its place had come something that regarded the world, life, heaven, earth--G.o.d himself--from a totally different standpoint; and everything viewed in the light of this new spirit was full of horror, misery, chaos.

"I will not tell any one. No, no! But how could you ever suppose that I knew about it?" protested Isidoro. He felt no especial horror of Giacobbe, only profound pity; but at the same time he thought it would be better, now, for him to die.

Then, simultaneously, their thoughts all flew to Costantino, and hardly left him again.

"Lie down," said Isidoro, smoothing out the pillow. But the other only shook his head and began to talk again in the same querulous, laboured voice, now beseeching, now almost angry:

"I thought you must know about it; and so, you never did, after all?

Well, that's so; how could you? But I was afraid of you all the same. I had an idea that I could read it in your eyes. Do you remember that night at your house, when you said: 'It might be you who killed him'? I was frightened that night. Then, there was that other time--a.s.sumption Day--here in this very house, you called me 'murderer.' I knew it was a joke, but it frightened me because I was afraid of you, anyhow. So then, when I said that about you and my sister getting married, I meant it. I thought it might give me a sort of hold on you."

"Oh, Christ! Oh, holy little Jesus!" sobbed the widow.

Giacobbe looked at her for a moment.

"You are scared, eh? You wonder what made me do it? Well, I'll tell you.

I hated that man; he had flogged me, and he owed me money. But I thought it would kill me when they condemned Costantino Ledda. Why didn't I confess then? Is that what you want to say? Ah, it sounds all very easy now, but you can't do it. Costantino is a strong young man, I thought to myself; I shall die long before he does, and then I'll confess the whole thing. And I can tell you that that thing that Giovanna Era did made me a hundred years older. What is Costantino going to say when he comes back? What is he going to say?" he repeated softly to himself.

"What ought we to do?" said Aunt Anna-Rosa, burying her face in the bedclothes and groaning. She felt as though it must all be some frightful dream; yet, not for a single instant did she contemplate concealing her brother's crime. And afterwards?--One of two equally horrible things must happen. Either Giacobbe would die, or he would be sent to prison. She could not tell which of the two she dreaded most.

"Now we must lie down and rest; to-morrow will be time enough to talk of what is the best thing to do," said Isidoro, again smoothing out the pillow. Giacobbe turned over and laid himself down; then, raising his left hand, he began to count off on his fingers: "Priest Elias, one; the magistrate, two; then--what's his name?--Brontu Dejas; yes, I want him particularly. They must all come here, and I will make a confession."

"Brontu Dejas!" repeated Isidoro with stupefaction.

"Yes; they will take his word sooner than any one's. But first, you've all got to swear on the crucifix that you'll let me die in peace. I'm frightened. You'll let me die in peace, won't you?"

"Why, of course; don't worry now. And you, little G.o.dmother, go back to bed; get as much rest and sleep as you can," said the fisherman, quietly drawing the clothes up about Giacobbe, who kept throwing them off, turning restlessly, and shaking his head.

"I'm hot," said he. "I tell you I'm hot. Let me alone. Why aren't you more surprised. Uncle 'Sidoro? I went on hiring out to keep people from suspecting anything; but you knew all along; oh, yes! you knew well enough!"

"I tell you I knew nothing at all, child of grace."

"Then why aren't you surprised?"

"Because," replied the old man in a grave voice, "such strange things are always happening; it is the way of the world. Now keep the covers over you, and try to go to sleep."

The widow, who appeared not to have been listening to what the two men were saying, now raised her face. Poor, little, fresh face! It had suddenly grown yellow and wrinkled; all the years that had pa.s.sed over it without being able to leave any trace, had, in the last five minutes, taken their revenge!

"Giacobbe," said the little woman, "what need is there of calling in witnesses? Why should we have any one else? Won't _I_ do?" She straightened herself and looked at Isidoro, who, in turn, looked at the sick man.

"Why, that's true!" they exclaimed together.

A sudden atmosphere of relief fell on the dimly lighted room. The patient, with a sigh, stretched himself quietly out, remained still for a few moments, and finally fell asleep. The little widow, likewise following Isidoro's advice, went back to bed. The ponderous front of the great red wardrobe seemed to be brooding over the scene; and the shadowy ceiling to overhang it like the sky above a deserted hamlet. All those inanimate objects seemed to repeat gravely to one another the old fisherman's words: "It is the way of the world!"

The Orlei physician, Dr. Puddu, was a coa.r.s.e, fat beast of a man. Once upon a time he, too, had had his high ideals; but Fate having cast him into this out-of-the-way corner of the world where the people were rarely, if ever, ill, he had taken to drink; at first, because, being from the South, he felt the cold; and afterwards because he found that wine and liquor were very much to his taste. In these days, in addition to his intemperate habits, he had become a Free Thinker, so that even the villagers had lost all respect for him. Giacobbe had complained of a pain in his side, and Doctor Puddu, after cauterising the tarantula bite, had said roughly:

"You fool, people don't die of these things. If you do die, it will only be because you are an a.s.s." And Aunt Anna-Rosa had looked at him angrily, and muttered something under her breath.

Poor little Aunt Anna-Rosa! It did not take much to anger her in these days; she quarrelled, indeed, with every one except the patient. And how old she looked! After that night her face had remained yellow and drawn; she looked like a different person, and her brother's revelation had worked a singular change in her both physically and morally. She was constantly tormented by the question as to how Giacobbe ever could have brought himself to kill any one. He, who was always as merry and gentle as a lamb! How in the name of the holy souls in purgatory had he ever done it? And our father, he was no thief, not he! He was a G.o.d-fearing man, and always so kind and gay that when any of the neighbours were in trouble they invariably came to him to be cheered up.

The little woman's heart swelled as she thought of her old father long since dead, but suddenly a mist seemed to rise in her brain, and her face contracted with the horror of a terrible thought.

"Perhaps he, too, the kindly, good old man had committed some crime! Why not? No one could be trusted any more, living or dead, old or young."

And then she fell to crying, beating her breast with her tiny fists, and bitterly repenting of her wicked doubts.

When, approaching the bedside, she would find the patient's face drawn with suffering, his wide, terror-stricken eyes, meanwhile, seeming to implore death to spare him, an infinite tide of pity would well up within her, a rush of maternal tenderness, a sorrow beyond words. More than ever was he her little brother, her boy, curled up on the great bed; so frightened, so shrunken with suffering! And while everything else, every one else, even the sacred dead, even innocent children, aroused hateful suspicions, he alone, he of them all, called for pity, tenderness, a pa.s.sionate and consuming love, that was like melting wax within her. Yet she must see him, and she was seeing him,--die. More than that, she must wish for his death. All the while that she was nursing him with tenderest care, she must hope that her watchfulness, the medicines, everything, would fail. Moreover, death, that awful thing which she must ardently desire for the "little brother" whom she loved, when it came would bring, not only the deep, natural sorrow of her loss, but that other horror, the announcement of his guilt.

Of all the burdens that pressed upon her, however, the hardest to bear was the fact that the sick man was perfectly conscious of her att.i.tude towards him.

On the third day of his illness, Isidoro had brought, with great secrecy and mystery, a medicine obtained from the sacristan. It was a concoction made of olive-oil, into which had been plunged three scorpions, a centipede, a tarantula, a spider, and a poisonous fungus; it was considered a cure for any kind of sting. Aunt Anna-Rosa applied it at once to the patient's puffed and swollen hand, he allowing her to do it, and watching the operation intently. Then he said:

"Why do you take all this trouble for me, Anna-Ro? Don't you want me to die?"

Her heart sank, while he continued quietly, addressing Isidoro: "And you? You brought me this, but just suppose it were to cure me, what would you do then?"

"G.o.d will look after that; leave it to him," said the fisherman.

Giacobbe lay quiet for a few moments; then he said:

"Shall you two go together to the magistrate's?"

"Where?"