‘Poor Costantino, poor lamb, what have they done to you?’ went on the other man, without listening to Giacobbe.

The shepherd became angry. His voice rang out harshly in the great red silence, in the protective solitude of the wild fig trees and the hedgerows.

‘They’ve made a cuckold of him! Why won’t you listen to me, you old piece of filth? We must do something at once. That young woman is merry and fresh, and at the first proposal she’ll fall like a ripe apple. She’s not bad at heart. If you want to help her, make her think of her duty and perhaps this disaster can be avoided. Go on. Get moving. If it’s true you’re a saint like the fools say, work a miracle.’

The old man got to his feet. His tall majestic figure, draped in rags, loomed up like a hermit of old against the wild background and the empty horizon.

‘I’ll go, I’ll go,’ he sighed. Giacobbe felt a weight lift from his heart. But the struggle the two men had taken on was to be a bitter one, ranged as it was against Brontu’s ugly passion, Bachisia’s greed, and Giovanna’s indifference. Martina too no longer looked askance upon what her son intended. Giovanna was poor, but she was healthy and frugal, and she worked like a beast of burden. A well-off woman would be offended by the disorder and dissipation in the house, and a wedding would prove hugely expensive. Giovanna, however, could have a secret wedding and come to the house as an unpaid servant.

Autumn came bringing sultry days, when the sea smoked on the horizon and dark, swollen clouds, like huge spiders, floated across the milky sky. The days were clear and cold.

In the evenings, out in the fields, when the sky reflected the purple clouds and the wind carried the scent of thyme burned by the peasants who were breaking up the heathland to sow wheat, Brontu drank long gulps of grappa to warm himself. He lay in the shepherds’ hut dreaming, warm and happy as a cat. Outside, around the hut for immense distances, the Dejas’ pastures and sheepfolds undulated, empty in the dusk. In and out of the golden stubble the earth burst, swollen with autumn rains, and from the pale green grass and the purple autumn flowers arose the scent of mushrooms. Flocks of black crows rustled out of the tarragon bushes, which looked like heaps of cinders, and flew to the thickets of rock-rose and tangle of wild strawberry trees, with their shiny leaves and pale gold berries.