"You don't want her, and yet you hang about her house all the time, like a fly about the honey-pot."
"Ah, you know about that?" said Costantino, somewhat crestfallen. "It's not true, though,—well—yes; perhaps it is. But suppose I do hang about her house, what business is it of yours?"
"Oh! none at all, but—you had better go away."
"I am going. I suppose the truth is you are getting tired of having me on your hands!"
"Costantino, Costantino!" exclaimed the old man in a hurt voice.
Costantino pulled up a tuft of rushes, threw it from him, and gazed again into the distance. His face was working as it had done on the morning of his return, after he had closed the door of Isidoro's hut; his brain swam, once or twice he gulped down the bitter saliva that rose in his throat; then he spoke:
"Well, after all, why does the priest insist so on my going? Am I not actually her husband? Suppose even that she were to come back to me? Wouldn't it be coming back to her own husband?"
"If she were to come back to you, my dear fellow, it would be Brontu Dejas either killing you or having you arrested."
"Well, you needn't be afraid; I don't want her. She's a fallen woman, as far as I am concerned. I shall go off somewhere, to a distance, and marry some one else."