‘To hell with who?’ asked a deep voice from the doorway. It was Isidoro Pane, an old leech-gatherer, a relative of the Era family, who had come to give them his condolences. Tall, with blue eyes and a long yellowing beard, he wore a carved bone rosary at his belt, and carried a long stick with a bundle fastened on the end. He looked like a pilgrim. He was the poorest, wisest, and most serene of all the inhabitants of Orlei. If he wanted to swear at someone he would simply say, ‘Go and be a leech-gatherer.’

He was a great friend of Costantino’s and had often sung the psalms of praise in church with him. For this reason, the Eras had asked him to be a witness for the defence, since no one could better attest to the good character of the accused. But Isidoro had been rejected. What would the word of a poor leech-gatherer amount to against the majesty of the law?

As soon as she saw him, Giovanna was so moved she began to sob again.

‘God’s will be done,’ said Isidoro, leaning his stick against the wall. ‘Have patience, Giovanna Era; do not lose faith in God.’

‘Do you know what’s happened?’ asked Giovanna.

‘I know, I know. But he’s innocent, and I tell you that even though they have condemned him today, tomorrow he will prove his innocence.’

‘Ah, Isidoro.’ Giovanna shook her head. ‘I don’t have your faith any more. I had faith up until yesterday, but now it’s gone.’

‘You’re not a good Christian. These are the teachings of Bachisia Era.’

Bachisia, who viewed the fisherman with some distaste and was always afraid he might leave some horrible vermin in the house, turned and was about to hurl abuse at him when another visitor arrived, followed by a woman and then a crowd of people. Soon the cottage was full. Even though she was by now tired out with crying, Giovanna felt obliged to start sobbing and shrieking again.

All the while, Bachisia was waiting for Martina Dejas, but the rich neighbour did not come. Instead, Giacobbe Dejas, who had just contracted to work for Martina, appeared alone. He was a cheerful man of about fifty, small and lean, clean-shaven, with neither eyebrows nor hair but with small, shrewd slanted eyes of a nondescript greenish-yellow colour. He had worked for Basilio Ledda for twenty years and, when called as a witness for the defence, had described Basilio’s ill-treatment of his nephew, recounting how on the day before he died, the old miser, who ill-treated both servants and women, had beaten and kicked him, Giacobbe Dejas.

‘Martina is expecting you,’ Bachisia told him. ‘You’d better …’

‘I hope the devil cuts off her nose,’ replied Giacobbe. ‘I’m afraid I may be falling out of the frying-pan into the fire. She’s a worse miser than he was.’