Martina was not asleep. She realized that Giovanna and Costantino were spending the night together. ‘Isidoro must have told Costantino what I said. Far from moving him to pity, it has prompted him to take advantage of my weakness. Costantino must have decided that, since I haven’t had the courage to tell my son the truth and make him unhappy, he might as well take advantage of me and come to his mistress. He doesn’t realize I’ll do anything to save my son. It’s between us two now, Costantino Ledda.’

A few nights later, climbing down from Giovanna’s window, the young man felt something cold graze his side. In the darkness he glimpsed the figure of a man with his head wrapped in a dark cloak.

Costantino hurled himself at the killer’s throat, and after a grim, silent struggle managed to throw him to the ground and disarm him. Then he picked up the knife and took it with him. He made no attempt to find out who the man was. What did it matter? It was the old woman’s hand that had wielded the weapon.

After tending the gash the knife had given him, Costantino retired like a hurt beast to lick his wounds in the old fisherman’s hovel, since Isidoro was away from the village. For three days and three nights the young man lay on a mattress, sunk in dismal thought.

It grew colder. The wind blew through the hedges, penetrating the hovel, rippling the cobwebs and shaking the dust from the ceiling. From the tiny window, Costantino could see dark purple clouds sailing across the chill clear sky. He wanted to die. What else was there for him? He no longer loved Giovanna. He had taken her back out of obstinacy and frustration rather than desire, but he did not love her, because she had betrayed him in the days of his sorrow. Now, out of hatred for the Dejas family, he kept up his love-affair with her. The thought that his death would bring joy to Martina was enough to revive him and kindle the blood in his veins.

He examined the dagger that the unknown killer tried to use on him. It was an old Spanish knife with spots of rust here and there like small clouds in a metallic sky. Someone, Martina herself perhaps, had rubbed the blade with ashes and ground it on a stone to make it serviceable again. As he looked at the knife, Costantino’s eyes reddened with anger.