The jurors, most of them old and fat, had already taken their seats. Some had thick beards and fierce eyes and looked as if they had already found the accused guilty. The judge had a good-natured, pink face, fringed by a straggly white beard. The prosecutor, with his straight blond moustache and arrogant red face, made no attempt to hide his intentions. All the officials – the registrars, the ushers and clerks with their black gowns – appeared to Giovanna like cruel sorcerers, waiting to cast a deathly spell on poor Costantino.

Standing in the dock like a large trembling bird, between the two stony-faced guards, Costantino looked at Giovanna, this time without smiling. He seemed overwhelmed by misery. As he faced those who were to decide his fate, his clear childlike eyes grew dark with terror.

An iron hand seemed to grip Giovanna’s heart. At times the sensation was so strong she felt a stab of physical pain.

The lawyer, a small sallow-faced young man, had begun to speak in a high-pitched feminine voice. His defence had been weak. Now he was repeating what he had already said, and his words fell into the void like drops of water into a cave.

The prosecutor maintained an air of indifference. Some of the jurors seemed to think they were performing an important function just by sitting patiently. Others looked as if they were not even listening. Only Bachisia, Giovanna and the prisoner were paying attention to the defence speech and the longer their lawyer spoke the more they felt their case was hopelessly lost.

From time to time someone new would appear, and Giovanna would turn quickly to see if it were Paolo. For some reason she found herself anxiously awaiting him, almost as if his mere presence might in some way help them.

When at last the lawyer finished, Costantino got to his feet and, blushing red, asked if he could speak. ‘My – my lawyer,’ he stammered, pointing at the man, ‘has spoken – has defended me – and I thank him. But he did not say – he did not say – what I wanted him to.’ He stopped, breathing hard.

‘Add anything to your defence that you feel necessary,’ the judge told him.

The prisoner lowered his eyes and grew pale once more. Then he passed his hand jerkily across his forehead and raised his head.

‘I—’ he began in a low voice. ‘I—’ He could go no further. He clenched his fists, turned fiercely to his lawyer and cried out in a strong voice, ‘I’m innocent. I tell you I am innocent!’

The lawyer gestured to him to keep quiet. The judge raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘He’s said the same thing about a hundred times. Is it our fault we can’t believe him?’ A woman’s sob rang through the courtroom.

Giovanna had broken down. Bachisia dragged her, struggling and weeping, to the door. Everyone except the prosecutor glanced sympathetically at the women.