On this Sunday, therefore, after the mass, Bachisia waited for the poor fisherman to finish singing the sacred psalms in his deep voice before she gave him Costantino’s message.

Father Elias remained on his knees on the altar steps, praying, his face pale and ecstatic. Isidoro went on singing, but the congregation began to file out.

Martina passed Bachisia walking haughtily like an old but still unbroken mare. Next came Brontu in his new suit, his hair slicked down with oil; then came Giacobbe, wearing a pair of rough new linen trousers that still smelled of the shop. Isidoro sang on.

The mass ended; the church had emptied but still he sang. His deep voice resounded from the dusty white walls, from beneath the roof beams and reed ceiling, and from the lowly altars, covered with coarse cloth and decorated with paper flowers, watched over by melancholy saints of painted wood.

When Isidoro finished singing no one was left in the church except the priest, a boy who was extinguishing the candles, Bachisia, and an old blind man. Yet again Isidoro repeated the final response of the psalm, then he laid aside the bell that was used to signal the reciting of the rosary, and got to his feet. Bachisia stood waiting for him at the door. They went out together, and she gave him Costantino’s message and then asked him a favour. It was to ask the priest if he would consent to see Giovanna and reason with her about the state she had fallen into. Isidoro promised to do so. Then, in the street, Bachisia was joined by Giacobbe Dejas.

‘How are you?’ asked the shepherd.

‘Oh God, we are ill, yet not sick. And you, how do you find your new masters?’

‘I’ve already told you! I’ve jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. The old woman’s as mean as the devil. She expects me to work until I drop, and she scarcely allows me to come into town once a fortnight to hear mass.’

‘And your master?’

‘Oh, the little master? He’s an animal. What else can I say?’

‘What do you mean by that, Giacobbe?’

‘It’s the truth, my chicken. He flares up like a mad dog at the slightest thing, gets drunk, and is as unpredictable as the weather. I suppose Isidoro Pane told you—’ He stopped uncertainly. Bachisia fixed her little green eyes on him. If he spoke ill of his master, she thought, he must have some reason.

‘Look here,’ he went on, ‘Isidoro Pane must have told you – of course he did – about Brontu being drunk that night. It was right here, on this spot, that he began to shout, “Tell Giovanna Era that if she gets a divorce I’ll marry her!” He’s an animal! A real animal! He drinks grappa by the barrelful.’