"San Giovanni grant it!" sighed Olì. "But it's wrong to wish any one's death. And now let me go home."
"Ah, stay a little longer!" he supplicated. "Why should you go so soon? What's to become of me without you?"
But she rose, all tremulous.
"Perhaps we'll see each other to-morrow morning. I shall be picking my flowers before sunrise. I'll make you a charm against temptations."
But he was not thinking about temptations. He knelt, clasping Olì in his arms, and began to cry.
"No, my flower, don't go! don't go! Stay a little longer, Olì, my little lamb! You are my life. See, I kiss the ground where you put your feet. Stay a little, or, indeed, indeed, I shall die!"
He groaned and shook; and his voice moved Oh even to tears.
She stayed.
Not till autumn did Uncle Micheli perceive that his daughter had gone wrong. Then fierce anger overpowered this wearied and suffering man, who had known all the griefs of life except dishonour. That was unbearable. He took Olì by the arm, and cast her out. She wept, but Uncle Micheli was implacable. He had warned her a thousand times. He had trusted her. Had her lover been a free man he might have forgiven. But this—No! this, he could never pardon.
For some days Olì found shelter in the tumble-down house round which Anania had sown his corn. The little brothers brought her scraps of food, till Uncle Micheli found it out and beat them.