Thus the hours wore on; he had dropped into a feverish sleep, but awoke suddenly, trembling with terror at he could not tell what. The rain was over at last, but in the profound stillness that enwrapped him, Costantino fancied that he still heard it beating on the roof, and the drip, drip from the leak over the fireplace; only now the sounds seemed to come from far, far away, from a world that was already remote. He thought that he was already dead, or lingering on the extremest confines of life, in a place of shadows, of silence, of mystery. What would he find there—just beyond? The light of eternity, or—the darkness of eternity? He was afraid to open his eyes; he tried to cry out, but could not utter a sound. Then—a knock came on the door. The sound dragged him back from that vague tide on which he was floating; he opened his eyes without moving, conscious both of relief and regret at finding himself still alive.
The knocking was repeated louder than before. Who could it be? Not Uncle Isidoro; he would have called out.
Costantino neither stirred nor spoke. Possibly he had not the strength to get up, but in any case he had no wish to. Why must they come to disturb him? dragging him back from those mysterious shores on which he had almost set foot.
Meanwhile the knocking continued still more vigorously, but after a little it ceased, and everything became perfectly still. A short time elapsed; then some one again approached the hut; presently the end of a stout stick was thrust under the door, serving as a lever; the frail barrier, secured only by a metal hasp, quickly yielded, and the figure of a woman, with a skirt thrown over her head and shoulders, appeared for a moment in the opening; stepping inside, she turned and replaced the rickety door before Costantino was able to recognise her. There was a moment of breathless silence, during which he could hear his visitor groping her way about, in the pitchy darkness, on the other side of the hut; then she spoke, and he recognised the voice of Aunt Bachissia.
"Costantino! Are you there? Where are you? Are you dead or alive? Why don't you answer? Some one said you had not been seen for three days, and that Isidoro Pane was away. I came once before and knocked and knocked, but you wouldn't answer. What's the matter? are you sick?"
Still he made no reply, burying his face like a sulky child.
"My soul!" moaned the woman, "he must be ill as well."
As well! Then some one else was ill! Who, he wondered. Perhaps Giovanna. He listened intently, still keeping his face covered.
"He has no fire and no light!" she muttered. "What does it all mean? Wait, I'll strike a light. Where are my matches?"
The pale, blue flame of a sulphur match shot up for a moment, and then suddenly died away.