Giovanna began to prepare the dinner. Listening to the noise of the rain, she too felt afraid. Not for her husband, but of a strange, unknown danger. The yellow glow that had accompanied the downpour mingled with a bluish light that came out of the west. The rain stopped, the clouds parted and sailed away, one behind the other, like people dispersing after a public meeting in the square. Through the freshened air came a grey gleam, a smell of earth and of dry grass, newly bathed. Thinking it was dawn, the cockerels began to crow. Then silence fell. Martina kept on spinning under the portico. Giovanna crouched on the hearth. She was lighting the fire when she heard the sound of whinnying. Trembling, she got up and peered outside. Brontu had returned, and she was afraid.

A light shone from Bachisia’s cottage. The old woman could be seen pushing the water out of the doorway with a furze broom. Beyond the fields the horizon looked green and calm, like a strip of sea. The dripping almond tree loomed over the whole scene and beneath its branches, in the last glow of the day, Brontu appeared on his horse. Black and steaming, horse and rider trailed slowly along, sodden, as if weighed down by water.

The two women went out to meet him, uttering half-hearted expressions of sympathy. The man ignored them. ‘Hell and damnation,’ he murmured. He pulled his feet out of the stirrups and jumped down from the saddle, completely soaked. ‘Deal with this,’ he ordered, striding into the kitchen. The two women unsaddled the horse, then Giovanna went inside, and Brontu immediately demanded a drink to dry himself out.

‘Get changed,’ she said.

But he didn’t want to change his clothes. All he wanted was a drink to dry himself. At first he grew angry when Giovanna insisted. But, in the end, he did what she wanted. He changed without having had a drink. While he waited for supper he dried his hair with a rag and combed it neatly.

‘That was quite a downpour,’ he said. ‘A real deluge. I got soaked to the bone.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘How are you feeling, Giovanna? Giacobbe Dejas sends you greetings. You’re like smoke in the eyes to him.’

‘You should curb his tongue,’ Martina said. ‘If you were any use you’d be respected by that trash of a shepherd.’

‘I’ll curb more than his tongue. He wanted to come back tonight. Let him stay there and rot. He can come back tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow morning? He shouldn’t even come tomorrow morning. You let yourself be robbed blind, my son, and you won’t lift a finger. You’re a good-for-nothing.’

‘It’s the Assumption tomorrow,’ Brontu said, combing his hair, ‘and Giacobbe is part of the family, after all. So hold your tongue. Look, Giovanna, aren’t I beautiful?’