"Speak! Speak!" insisted one of the women, shaking her again by the arm. "Speak! Ask the lady to send you to the Madonna of the Miracles."
The others surrounded Hippolyte with supplications.
"Yes, signora. Be charitable to her! Send her to the Madonna. Send her to the Madonna!"
The child cried louder. In the tops of the pine-tree the sparrows were emitting heart-rending cries. In the neighborhood, between the deformed trunks of the olive-trees, a dog barked. The moon was beginning to cast its shadows. "Yes," stammered Hippolyte, incapable of sustaining longer the fixed gaze of the silent mother. "Yes, yes, we will send her—to-morrow."
"No, not to-morrow; Saturday, signora."
"Saturday is the Vigil."
"Let her buy him a candle."
"A fine candle."
"A ten-pound candle."
"Do you hear, Liberata? Do you hear?"