He thought he was laughing but his lips did not move. Down he went, now intent on the path with its fringe of tall grass, now watching the birds that flew low, almost brushing the earth, pacing themselves against his stride, then flying back into the scrubland to sleep. He remembered the old magpie in the prison, and something melted in his heart. It had pained him to leave the prison with the companions he did not love, the gloomy walls, the sky that hung like a metal sheet over the prison yard which had oppressed him for so many years.

After the death of the real murderer, it had taken days and months for the law to complete the formalities required to free the innocent man. To Costantino, who had been told of all that had happened, the days had seemed like years. On leaving, he had almost wept.

Now that sorrow too had passed. Everything had passed, as had the hideous pain of Giovanna’s treachery. He almost felt he could laugh about it.

He reached the bottom of the valley and began to walk along the bank of the Isalle. The sunset light was still brilliant while water shone here and there between oleanders and rushes, reflecting the red-gold glare of the sky. The lacy umbrellas of elder and the bright coral buds of the oleanders stood out against the light sky like enamel-work set in silver. Tired by now, Costantino began to realize that the valley was not as small as it had seemed when he had first seen it again.

‘I’ll sleep well in the open air,’ he thought. Sitting down at the edge of a wheatfield, he took from his little bundle a dry gourd filled with wine, and drank, drenching his face. He replaced the gourd and looked at the field. He felt as if he were on the edge of a lake where emeralds floated, red with the blood of poppies.

Calmer now, he continued his journey, but he no longer walked with his former eagerness. Since no one was waiting for him it did not matter whether he arrived that day or the next. The first evening shadows began to close in on him before he reached the end of the valley. The crickets seemed to saw the grass with little silver sickles, the scent of flowers and greenery hung warmly on the air, the breeze had spent itself, the birds were silent, and only the black triangles of bats furrowed the luminous dusk.