"In the name of the holy souls in purgatory! What is it? What is the matter, little brother?"
Isidoro, quite at a loss, continued to feel his friend's pulse, trying now one vein, and now another, and muttering to himself: "How strange, how very strange!"
"Well, what is it? Won't you tell me what it is? You, Isidoro Pane, what happened?"
"Why, nothing happened. He called out, and that was all. May be he had a bad dream. We'll give him a drink of water. There now, here's a little fresh water. That's it, he wants it—see how he is drinking! You were thirsty, weren't you? It's the fever, you see; that's what ails him!"
Giacobbe sat up in bed, and after drinking the water calmed down. He had on an old white knitted cotton shirt, through which could be seen the outline of his small wiry body, the thick growth of black hair on his chest contrasting oddly with the perfectly smooth face and bald head above it. He remained in a sitting posture, leaning forward, and thoughtfully passing his well hand up and down the injured arm.
"Yes," he remarked suddenly in the panting, querulous tone of a person with fever. "Yes; I had a bad dream. Whew! but it was hot! Holy San Costantino, how hot it was! I was dreaming of hell."
"Dear me, dear me, what an idea!" said his sister reprovingly; and Uncle Isidoro said playfully: "And so it was hot, little spring bird?"
The sick man seemed to be annoyed.
"Don't joke, and don't say 'little spring bird.' I don't like it; I shall never say it again, and I shall never laugh at any one again.
"Listen to me," he said, bending forward and continuing to rub his arm. "Hell is a dreadful place. I've got to die, and I've got to tell you something first. Now listen, but don't get frightened, Anna-Rosa, because I am certainly going to die; and Uncle Isidoro, you know it already, so I can tell you. Well, this is it. It was I who killed Basile Ledda."