At last, unable to restrain himself longer, he spoke out with the assurance of a man who knows and sees.
“Stop your idle talk! What if there is a little cholera among us. Let us keep the secret to ourselves.”
At this unexpected outburst, the Councillors were taken by surprise, then burst into laughter.
“Go on, Mengarino! What foolishness are you talking!” exclaimed Don Aiace, the Assessor, slapping the old man on the shoulder, while the rest, with much shaking of heads and beating of fists upon the table, talked of the pertinacious ignorance of the country people.
“Well, well, but do you think we are deceived by your talk?” asked Antonio Mengarino, with a quick gesture, hurt by the laughter which his words had created, and in the hearts of the three peasants their instinctive hostility toward and hatred of the upper classes were revived. Then they were excluded from the secrets of the Council? Then they were still considered ignoramuses? Oh, those were two galling thoughts!
“Do as you please. We are going,” said the old man bitterly, putting on his hat and the three peasants left the hall in silent dignity.
When they were outside the town, in the upland country filled with vineyards and cornfields, Giulio Citrullo stopped to light his pipe, and said decisively:
“We will not mind them! We can be on our guard, and know that we shall have to take precautions. I would not like to be in their places!”
Meanwhile, throughout the farming country, the fear of the disease had taken possession of all. Over the fruit trees, the vineyards, the cisterns, and the wells, the farmers, suspicious and threatening, kept close and indefatigable watch. Through the night frequent shots broke the silence, and even the dogs barked till dawn. Imprecations against the Government burst forth with greater violence from day to day. All the peaceful labours of the farm-hands were undertaken with a sort of carelessness; from the fields expressions of rebellion rose in songs and rhymes, improvised by the hands.
Then, the old men recalled instances in the past which confirmed the suspicions about poisoning. In the year ’54, some vintagers had one day caught a man hidden in the top of a fig-tree, and when they forced him to descend, they noticed in his hand a vial, which he had attempted to conceal. With dire threats they compelled him to swallow the yellowish ointment which it contained, whereupon shortly he fell writhing in agony with greenish foam issuing from his mouth and died within a few minutes. In Spoltore, in the year ’57, Zinicche, a blacksmith, killed the Chancellor, Don Antonio Rapino, in the square, after which the mysterious deaths ceased, and the country was saved.