"After that I had a son. His name is Fidele, and he's eight years old and has gone to work at a sheepfold. Then I had this one. We are very poor now, sister. My husband wasn't dishonest, you know; he had lived on his own property, and that's why we had to sell everything except just this house."
"How did he die?" asked the girl, caressing the head of the apparently sleeping child.
"How did he die? Oh, on one of his expeditions. He never got into prison," said the widow, proudly, "though the police were after him like hunters after a boar. He was clever at hiding, and when the police were looking for him on the mountains, he would be spending the night here—yes, here, at this hearth where you are sitting now."
The child looked up, his two great ears suddenly on fire; then sank again on Olì's lap.
"Yes, I tell you, here. One day, two years ago, he learned that a patrol was searching the hills for him, and he sent to tell me, 'While they are busy at that I'm going to take part in a job; on the way back, I'll stop with you, little wife. Look out for me.' I looked out three nights, four. I span a whole hank of black wool."
"Where was he?"
"Don't you understand? On a bardana, of course!" cried the widow impatiently. Then she dropped her voice. "I waited four nights, but I was anxious. Every step I heard set my heart beating. The fourth night passed. My heart had shrunk, till it was as little as an almond. Then I heard a beating at the door. I opened. 'Woman, wait no longer,' said a man with a mask over his face. And he gave me my husband's cloak. Ah——" the widow gave a sigh which was almost a groan. Then she was silent.
Olì watched her a long time. Suddenly her gaze was attracted to the frightened gaze of the little Zuanne, whose hands, hard and brown as the claws of a bird, were clenching themselves, and fingering the wall.
"What is it? What do you see?"
"Dead man!" lisped the child.