Guiseppe, hesitating, ran his hand several times through his black hair as he looked from Marta to Pappina, still asleep on the ground. He knit his brow, struggling with himself as though it were a hardship to grant his wife a favor.
"Guiseppe," Marta bravely began again, but he interrupted her.
"Come on," he said roughly. "I'll humor you this time. I'll let her sleep."
So it came about that Pappina awoke under the big tree in the early morning sun to find herself alone. Suddenly a great fear seized her. Perhaps Marta and Guiseppe had gone off and left her. She sprang up and ran to the road, looking wildly about for them. In her terror she did not notice the Punchinello box leaning against the tree, and she started toward the village, crying aloud: "Marta, Marta!"
Her tears flowed freely, and between her sobs she continued to cry for Marta and occasionally for Guiseppe. It was with Guiseppe's name half–spoken on her lips that the little frightened child stopped crying.
"Guiseppe! Gui—oh! I hate him! I hate him more than I did last night!" The memory of how he had treated her the day before came over her like a flood. "It is fete day at Cava; he said so. All I earn is mine, and when I sing the Garibaldi I shall have my tambourine full of money. Oh, how glad I am! Then I can go home."
As she hurried on, her plan grew clearer. She would strike out for herself. Then suddenly she stopped again, like a butterfly halted and shifted in its course by a vagrant wind.
"Oh, Marta! If you were only with me, I should not care," she sobbed.
Buffeted by conflicting feelings, Pappina sped on toward the village of Cava.
Marta ate but little. She started back to find Pappina, leaving Guiseppe to finish his breakfast alone.