"What do you say?"
"If you are not lying at this moment, and didn't come here to lay a trap for me, with this story of her being alone—well, then you are better than she."
"Why should I lay a trap for you? I'm sorry for you, that's all. I swear by the memory of my dead, that if you go there this evening you'll run no risk whatever."
"Who can believe you, woman, when you don't respect even the dead?"
Mattea, angry and offended, started to leave the hut; but he held her back.
"A low dog," she said scornfully. "I take pity on you, and you speak to me like that! What have you to reproach me with? What, I say?" She threw her head back with a certain pride, knitting her brows, and turning upon Costantino a look that was altogether new. He stared back at her for a moment, amazed that a woman of her class should speak in that tone, should hold up her head, and dare to look at him with such an expression. Then he began to laugh.
"I'm off now," he said, "but I'll be back in a moment. I'll get some wine too, even though you don't drink it. Wait for me here—wait, I say," he repeated roughly, as she followed him to the door. "Don't bother me." She stood still, and he went out, but before he had gone a dozen steps he heard her deep voice calling him back.
Returning, he saw the tip of her nose through the crack of the door, and one eye, regarding him with its habitual look of dull stolidity.
"What do you want, squint-eyed goat?"
"If you are going to her, there is no use in making me wait here."