The composition of this hymn kept him occupied for many days, and made him almost happy. When it was finished he felt a profound joy and a need to tell someone about it. But whom? The warder, a small bald Neapolitan, with a shiny snub nose like a skeleton’s, would not understand the hymn. During the exercise hour it was strictly forbidden for prisoners in solitary confinement to speak to their companions. So Costantino asked to confess himself, so as to be able to recite the hymn to the chaplain. The chaplain, who was young and intelligent, listened patiently to Costantino, making him translate the hymn. He then inquired if in asking to confess for the purpose of reciting his verses Costantino had not been guilty of the sin of vanity.

Costantino reddened and replied that he had not. The confessor smiled kindly, comforted him, praised the verses, and sent him away with a blessing.

A few days later the prisoner asked to confess again. ‘Well, have you composed another hymn?’ joked the chaplain.

‘No,’ said the prisoner, lowering his eyes. ‘But I’ve come to ask a favour.’

‘What favour? Tell me.’

Costantino paused for a moment, holding his breath, fearful of how much he might be risking in making his request. Then he said quickly, ‘I want to send the hymn to my home.’

‘Ah,’ said the chaplain. ‘I can’t help you. And in any case, how could you write it?’

‘I know how to write,’ exclaimed the prisoner, raising his clear eyes.

‘That was not what I meant, my brother. You are not permitted to write.’

‘Oh, I’ll get round that somehow.’

‘Good, good, but I can’t do anything for you.’

Costantino’s face grew desolate. He could barely keep back the tears. Then he made his confession, asking if it would not be better to dedicate his hymn to Saint Peter and Saint Paul, since they too had been in prison. He asked the chaplain’s forgiveness for presuming too much in making such a request.

The young chaplain gave him absolution and prayed out loud at length. Then, putting a hand over his eyes, he said slowly and softly, ‘Write down the hymn if you can do it. And have courage.’

A shudder of joy went through the prisoner. From that moment he could think of nothing but how he might write down his verses.

‘I’ve been a student,’ he told the warder one day. ‘But I can also make shoes. Would you like me to make you a pair? They’ll fit you well.’

‘You’re after something,’ replied the little man in his Neapolitan dialect. ‘You can’t make anything.’

‘Be a good fellow, Uncle Serafino. Think of your immortal soul.’

‘I’m thinking of my soul, and I’ve already told you I’m not your uncle. You killed your uncle.’

‘No offence meant. At home we call all important people uncle.’

‘My name is Don Serafino.’