From all this, Bachisia grasped one thing only – the fact that Brontu had said he would marry Giovanna if she got a divorce. Her green eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Giacobbe,’ she said haughtily, ‘wouldn’t you want that?’

‘I? What do I matter, my chicken? But you should be ashamed of yourself, you old hawk, to speak of such things barely two weeks after—’

‘I’m no hawk,’ shrieked the old woman. Giacobbe laughed, but angrily.

‘At least wait until after the appeal. Then you can devour Costantino as you would devour a harmless lamb. Devour him, then. But Giovanna will marry a bottle of grappa. As for you, while Martina Dejas lives, you’ll starve worse than ever.’

‘You bald headed old—’ Bachisia began, but Giacobbe walked quickly away, and she had to content herself with hurling a stream of abuse after him. Not that she had any thought of getting her daughter to apply for a divorce. Heaven forbid! With poor Costantino still under appeal, shut up in a burning furnace, eaten alive by filthy insects! No, but why had that horrible man said those things about his master? Why did he meddle in his master’s affairs? Perhaps the bald old crow himself fancied Giovanna.

Filled with these spiteful thoughts, she returned to the cottage. She wanted to tell Giovanna everything, but finding her for the first time in two weeks bathed and combing her long dishevelled hair that tumbled about her, Bachisia dared not say a word.

VI

Time passed, autumn came and then winter. Costantino’s appeal was rejected, as appeals always are. One night he was bound by a length of chain to another convict, whom he had never seen before, and put in line with other men, two by two, all dressed in coarse clothes, all like beasts tamed by an unseen power. They marched, but whither they did not know. They were silent, but why they did not know. They were driven down to the water’s edge, put on board a long, black steamer and there they were shut into a cage.