Part 10 (1/2)

Anxiously Costantino follows every movement of the old thief as he first detaches the little cork hives from the flat stones on which they stand; then, tying them all together with a stout cord, places them in a bag, and makes off. Just at this point Costantino could not quite make up his mind as to the next act in the drama, and as he was considering, a shrill voice broke in on his reflections: ”Cos-tan-ti! Cos-tan-ti!”

and arousing himself with an effort he saw the magpie, fat and sleek, hopping lazily about in the courtyard, and stretching its blue wings in the sun.

At night, with the precious letter safely deposited beneath his pillow, he would resume the thread of his thoughts. Now it was the sonorous voice of his friend the fisherman that he would hear, singing the lauds, and sometimes he almost wondered if Isidoro had not in truth seen--on the river-bank, among the oleander bushes bending over with their weight of fragrant pink blossoms--the figure of an old man dressed in white, with a long beard as snowy as the wool of a little newborn lamb! Ah, surely it was the Saint himself, good San Costantino, come to tell Isidoro that he had not forgotten the prisoners unjustly condemned!

Costantino readily accepted this picture of the Saint, although the statue of him in the village church represented a robust and swarthy warrior.

”Good old Saint! Good San Costantino! Soon, soon thou wilt free us all, blessed forever be thy name!”

Then the scene changes. Now it is the portico of the rich Dejas's house; every one is busy with the spun wool, dividing it into long skeins preparatory to weaving it. Giovanna comes and goes, carrying huge bunches in her hands. Brontu is there too, seated on the threshold of the kitchen door, with his legs well apart, and between them, laughing and unsteady, stands the little Malthineddu. Ah, intolerable thought!

Presently, however, remembering that Brontu is never at home except on holidays, he is somewhat comforted, and then he falls asleep, his heart steeped in a mingled sensation of joy and pain.

CHAPTER VII

Summer had come again.

”How quickly the time pa.s.ses,” said Aunt Martina, as she sat spinning on the portico. ”It seems only yesterday, Giacobbe, that you took service with us, and yet, here you are back again to renew the contract! Ah, the time does indeed pa.s.s quickly for us poor employers! You have saved thirty silver scudi at the very least, and have begun to build a house of your own, but what have we to show for it?”

”That's all very well, but how about the sweat of my brow, little spring bird? The sweat of my brow, doesn't that count for anything?” replied the herdsman, who was busily greasing a leather cord with tallow.

”But there's your keep,” rejoined the old woman. ”Ah, you have forgotten to allow for that!”

May the crows pick your bones! thought Giacobbe, who would have liked to say it aloud, but was afraid to. He thoroughly detested both his employers, the miserly old woman and the weak, hot-headed son, who tormented him continually with his project of marrying Giovanna if she would get a divorce. It was important, though, for him to renew the contract, so he held his tongue. He greased the thong thoroughly, rolled it up, and took it into the house; then he asked permission to go off to attend to a piece of business of his own, and having received a grudging a.s.sent, departed.

Walking in the direction of the Era cottage, the herdsman presently descried little Malthineddu bestriding, with very unsteady seat, a spirited stick horse, the sun gilding his dirty little white frock, his stout legs and bare arms.

Stooping down with outstretched arms, Giacobbe barred the way. ”Where are we off to?” he asked caressingly. ”There's the sun, don't you see it? Ahi! ahi! Maria Pettina[5] will come with her fire-comb and s.n.a.t.c.h you up, and carry you off to the hobgoblins! Run back quickly to the house.”

”No-o-o, no-o-o-o,” shouted the child, jumping up and down on his steed.

”Well, then,” said Giacobbe, lowering his voice and closing one eye as he pointed to the white house, ”Aunt Martina is up there, and to save bread she eats little children; don't you see her?”

The boy seemed to be impressed, and allowed himself to be led back to the cottage, still insisting, however, upon riding his stick.

Giovanna was sewing at the door, as round and fresh and rosy as though no misfortune had ever befallen her. Above her pretty face the ma.s.s of wavy hair lay in thick, glossy coils. Seeing Giacobbe approach with the child, she raised her head and smiled. ”Here he is,” said the herdsman.

”I am bringing him safely back to you; but I found him playing in the sun, and travelling straight towards Aunt Martina, who eats children so as to save bread.”

”Oh, go away!” said Giovanna. ”You ought not to tell children such things!”

”I tell them to grown people as well, for Aunt Martina eats them too.

Look out, Giovanna Era, the first thing you know she will eat you, and all the more because you are like a ripe quince--no, not that either, quinces are yellow, aren't they? You are more like a--a----”

”An Indian fig!” she suggested, laughing.

”And how is Aunt Bachissia? Is it long since you heard from Costantino?”

At this Giovanna became suddenly grave, replying with an air of mystery that they had had news of the prisoner only a short time before.