“Mattia Scafarola.”
Again he asked:
“What are they doing now?”
They answered:
“They are singing the vespers.”
The farmers bid him good-bye and left for vespers. A great chiming came from the mother church.
One of the relations placed near the wound a bucket of cold water, saying:
“Every little while put your hand in it. We must go. Let us go and listen to the vespers.”
L’Ummalido remained alone. The chiming increased, while changing its metre. The light of day began to wane. An olive tree, blown by the wind, beat its branches against the low window.
L’Ummalido began to bathe his hand little by little. As the blood and concretions fell away, the injury appeared even greater. L’Ummalido mused: