The twilight deepened. The sky became still clearer while the clouds took on a purple colour and grew long, with fishlike scales. Sounds and animal noises became more intense in the silence of the hour. One evening Brontu dreamed that he heard Bachisia talking.

‘St John the Baptist!’ said a harsh, mournful voice. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you’re Giacobbe Dejas.’

‘At your service,’ came the somewhat surprised voice of the shepherd. ‘What bad weather have you brought here, my little chicken?’

‘At last. Where is Brontu Dejas?’

Brontu stumbled out of the shed. His legs were shaking and his head was spinning. As if through a mist he saw Bachisia’s dark face. She carried her shoes in her hand and a bundle on her head.

‘Bachisia,’ he muttered. ‘Here I am. Come in. Good evening.’

She all but hurled herself at him.

‘Oh Brontu, dear son-in-law, if tonight isn’t the death of me nothing will be. I’ve been walking for three hours. I lost my way. I must speak to you. Please listen.’

He did more than listen. He was moved almost to tears. He took her hand and led her into the hut. Giacobbe, who had followed behind, realized he was not wanted. Retreating behind the hut, he strained his ears and paced up and down like a caged beast.

He could hear nothing. It was a short conversation. Bachisia would not even sit down. She said she had got lost near Brontu’s sheepfold and that Giovanna, whom she had told to go and pick greens, must be waiting for her anxiously. They were so poor they were forced to live on weeds. Bachisia had come to beg Brontu for money. If they could not pay it back to him, she and Giovanna would work for the Dejas for nothing until they had cleared the debt. They hadn’t paid the rent for their house for months, and the lawyer was threatening to evict them.

‘Then, where can we go, Brontu?’ said Bachisia, wringing her yellow clawlike hands. ‘Dear Brontu, where can we go?’

Brontu’s heart leapt in his chest. He would have liked to throw his arms round the old woman and cry, ‘My house is yours,’ but he did not dare.

He had no money with him, so he decided to return to the village at once. Leaving the hut, he called to Giacobbe to saddle the horse.

‘What’s happened?’ asked the shepherd. ‘Has your mother died, glory be to God?’

‘No,’ replied Brontu, without anger, ‘nothing has happened that concerns you.’

Giacobbe saddled the horse, dying to know why Bachisia had come and why Brontu was returning to the village. Did she want money? He had none there. Was he going to get her some? ‘Listen, Brontu!’ he called. When the young man came up, he muttered, ‘If that woman wants money and you haven’t any, I’ll give her some.’