‘If they kicked out everyone who is in a state of mortal sin,’ he thought, ‘the church would be empty. I hate those two. I’d beat them until I drew blood. But I’m not cruel. I got here late because I had to repair the dams that were broken in yesterday’s downpour. When I came back I found Giovanna preparing the dinner. She was dirty and unhappy. It’s no holiday for her. Mother and son had gone out. She, the servant, stays in the house and works. Stay there and die, you fallen woman. But I’m sorry for her. God forgive me, I’m sorry for her. I’ve said bad things to her. After all, she’s the mistress and I’m the servant. Is it my fault, my little chicken, if I insult you? Let’s hear what that sparrow of a priest has to say.’

‘Dear brothers and sisters,’ the priest began, gesturing with his hands. He had a northern accent, soft, with a touch of Spanish. ‘Faith in Our Lady is the most sublime ideal. She, the gentlest lady, mother of Our Lord, ascended to heaven, radiant and fragrant as a pink cloud, and now sits in glory among the angels and seraphim.’

‘Look at Father Elias,’ thought Giacobbe, turning to face the altar, his slanted eyes glinting like steel. ‘Look at him with his hands together in prayer. All he does is preach goodness, when he has the holy books and could threaten to excommunicate Giovanna Era. He seems to have gone into a dream.’

‘No one has ever failed to receive grace when, in true faith, they have prayed to Our Most Holy Lady. She, the lily of the valley, the mystic Rose of Jericho,’ went on the little priest, leaning out of the yellow pulpit.

‘He’ll never finish,’ thought Giacobbe.

The people began to tire. Dotted about on the floor like buttercups and poppies, the women fidgeted and stopped listening. The young priest realized and finished his sermon, blessing the shepherd people, who had heard God’s word while their minds were on their own business, not to mention that of others.

Then Father Elias shook himself out of his daydream and took over the celebration of the Mass. Only he and Isidoro Pane had listened closely to the sermon. He ended the Mass and the fisherman began to sing the sacred psalms, his deep voice like clear water, rushing between lone musk-rose bushes.

The young priest listened ecstatically to the sonorous chanting. The old man with his long beard and gentle eyes, a bone rosary twisted on his gnarled fingers, reminded him of the painting of a pilgrim by the Dutch artist, Jan Both, that he had seen in Rome.