She no longer trusted anyone, living or dead, old or young. She went to the sick man, and he, his face furrowed with pain, his eyes that seemed to beg death to spare him, filled her with infinite tenderness and a nameless grief. As he lay doubled up on the vast bed, he seemed more than ever her little brother. All objects, all people, even the holy dead and the innocent children, now roused hideous doubts, bitter distrust, profound rancour in her mind, while he alone touched her pity, her tenderness, and her love. She must watch him die, indeed, long for death for him. As she nursed him tenderly all she could wish for was that the medicines, the remedies, would be useless. Moreover, this terrible death that she must desire for her ‘little brother’ was to bring another, still greater pain – the declaration of the crime. Above all, it pained Anna-Rosa that the sick man knew of her anguish.

On the third day of the illness, Isidoro appeared looking mysterious and carrying a potion prepared by the sacristan. This potion was composed of olive oil, in which floated three scorpions, a centipede, a tarantula, a spider, and a poisonous toadstool. It was said to cure any bite. Anna-Rosa at once smeared it on the sick man’s swollen purple hand while Giacobbe asked her calmly, ‘Why are you trying to cure me, Anna-Ro? Don’t you want me to die?’

She felt as if her heart would break.

‘Let it be,’ said Giacobbe, looking at Isidoro. ‘But if I don’t die, what will you do?’

‘God will think of something. Don’t worry.’

Giacobbe was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Will you go to the judge together?’

‘What?’

‘To the judge. It’s cold now, and it’s a long way. You mustn’t go on horseback, Anna-Rosa, you know. You must go to Nuoro in a carriage.’

‘Why?’ she asked, irritably.

‘To see the judge, of course.’

She scolded him, then she went into the kitchen and wept bitterly.

‘Look, here’s your oil,’ she said to Isidoro, as he was leaving. ‘You could at least take it away. When is Father Elias coming?’

‘He’s coming this evening.’

‘Giacobbe must confess. Time is flying, he’s very ill. He didn’t sleep a wink last night. He’s like a wounded bird.’

‘Have the Dejas been?’

‘They’ve been. Mother and son. Brontu came twice. Yes, yes, they’re all coming, but what’s the use? No one can grant life or death.’

‘There is good and bad in him,’ said Isidoro, carefully wrapping his red handkerchief round the bottle of oil.

‘And in everyone,’ replied the woman.

Shortly afterwards the doctor arrived. He was already drunk, and he belched and spat, sometimes on himself. Fumes of grappa came from his purple lips. He was much alarmed at Giacobbe’s condition.