'Saracinesca, Saracinesca,' she repeated slowly, her voice sinking; 'three Saracinesca have made one widow! But one widow may yet make many widows, and many mourning mothers, and the justice of Heaven is not the justice of man.'
San Giacinto and Orsino had gradually approached Ippolito, and now stood beside him, facing the beautiful, wild girl, in her desolation. Grave and thoughtful, the three kinsmen stood side by side.
There was nothing theatrical or unreal in the situation. One of themselves had killed the girl's betrothed husband, whom she had loved with all her soul. That was the plain fact, and Orsino had never ceased to realise it. Unhesitatingly, and in honourable self-defence, he had done a deed by which many were suffering greatly, and he was brought face to face with them in their grief. Somehow, it seemed unjust to him that the girl should accuse his brother and his cousin of Ferdinando's death.
As she paused, facing them, breathless with the wave of returning pain, rather than from speaking, Orsino moved forward a little in front of Ippolito.
'I killed Ferdinando Corleone,' he said, gravely. 'Do not accuse us all three, nor curse us all three.'
She turned her great eyes to his face, but her expression did not change. Possibly she did not believe him.
'The dead see,' she answered slowly. 'They know—they know—they see both you and me. And the dead do not forget.'
A flying cloud passed over the sun, and the desolate land was suddenly all black and grey and stony, with the solemn vastness of the mountain behind. Concetta drew her shawl up over her head, as though she were cold, and turned from the three men with a simple dignity, and knelt down on the rough, broken stones, where the blades of coarse grass shot up between, close to the gate, and she clasped her hands together round one of the dusty, painted iron rails.
'Let us go,' said San Giacinto's deep voice. 'It is better to leave her, poor girl.'