He threw aside the great armful of yellow flowers, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The sickle dangled loose in his hand.
“We have declared war,” he said.
In an instant she realized that she had seen the figure of the old post-carrier dodging between the rocks. Rose-red and gold-yellow of the flowers swam in her eyes. Ciccio’s dusk-yellow eyes were watching her. She sank on her knees on a sheaf of corn-marigolds. Her eyes, watching him, were vulnerable as if stricken to death. Indeed she felt she would die.
“You will have to go?” she said.
“Yes, we shall all have to go.” There seemed a certain sound of triumph in his voice. Cruel!
She sank lower on the flowers, and her head dropped. But she would not be beaten. She lifted her face.
“If you are very long,” she said, “I shall go to England. I can’t stay here very long without you.”
“You will have Pancrazio—and the child,” he said.
“Yes. But I shall still be myself. I can’t stay here very long without you. I shall go to England.”
He watched her narrowly.