Then the picture changed. It was the portico of the Dejas’ house, where the spun wool was divided into long skeins preparatory to being woven. Back and forth went Giovanna with the huge skein in her hands. And there was Brontu seated outside the kitchen door, legs apart, and between them, standing unsteadily and laughing, was little Martino. Oh, horrible thought. But then Costantino remembered that Brontu was never in the village on working days, and he awoke with a start, his heart burdened with a feeling of mingled sorrow and joy.

VII

Summer came again.

‘How quickly the time flies,’ Martina said as she sat spinning under the portico. ‘It seems only yesterday that you came to work for us, Giacobbe, and here you are already renewing your contract. How time flies by for us poor landowners! You’ve saved up thirty silver scudi and are building yourself a house. What have we got to show for it?’

‘How well you put it, Martina, my little chicken. What about my sweat? Doesn’t that count for anything?’ replied the shepherd, who was greasing a leather thong with tallow.

‘What about your keep? Doesn’t that count?’

May the crows pick your bones, Giacobbe thought, not daring to say it aloud. He hated his masters, the old miser and her hothead son, who was always going on about how he meant to marry Giovanna if she got a divorce. But Giacobbe wanted to renew his contract, and so he held his tongue.

He greased the thong, rolled it up, hung it in the kitchen, and asked the old woman if he could go and see to a small business matter of his own.

‘Go on, then,’ she said reluctantly.

On his way down to the Eras’ cottage, the shepherd came upon little Martino astride a hobby-horse made of a length of reed. He was tottering along in his dirty white smock, his bare legs and arms tanned golden by the sun. The shepherd crouched down, spread his arms, and blocked the child’s path.

‘Where are you going? Don’t you see the sun? It’s going to scorch you up and carry you off. Run home.’

‘No, no!’ shrieked the child, jumping up and down on his horse.

‘All right then, my little chicken,’ went on Giacobbe, lowering his voice and casting a sideways glance at the portico. ‘There’s old Aunty Martina. She’s so mean that to save bread she eats little boys. D’you see her?’

The boy seemed convinced, and let himself be led back home but insisted on riding his hobby-horse.

Giovanna sat sewing in the doorway. She was as plump, rosy and fresh as if nothing had ever happened to her. Glossy black hair fell across her forehead. She looked up, and seeing Giacobbe with the child, she smiled.