Ippolito faced the people calmly enough, walking between the four carabineers, who marched two and two on each side of him, and the evening light shone full upon his clear-cut features and his innocent, brave eyes. He needed courage as well as innocence to bear him through the ordeal, for he knew that but for the handful of soldiers, the crowd would have made short work of tearing him to pieces in their fury. For once, the soldiers were on their side against the hated Italians of the mainland. The people applauded them and their corporal, and the infantry officer, as they went by.
The children ran before, crying out to the people who were still coming down from the village.
'Here comes the priest of the Saracinesca!' they shouted. 'Here comes the assassin!'
'Assassin! assassin!' Ippolito heard the word a thousand times in five minutes. And some of the people spoke to the soldiers and the corporal.
'Give him to us, Uncle Carabineer!' cried the crooked carpenter. 'What has the law to do with him? Give him to us! We will serve him half roasted and half boiled!'
All the people who heard laughed at this and jeered at Ippolito.
'See the blood on his hands!' screamed the carpenter's big wife, suddenly catching sight of the red stains. 'See the blood of Sicily on the priest's hands!'
A yell rose from all the multitude, for a hundred had heard the woman's high, shrill voice, and the rest took up the cry, so that the children who went before ran back to see what was the matter. One was the woman's child. She caught him in her strong arms and raised him up to see, as she marched along.
'See the good Sicilian blood!' she cried into the boy's ear.
'Curses upon the souls of his dead!' yelled the child, half mad with excitement.