He caught hold of her wrists and looked her in the eyes.
'Are you the woman they are going to kill each other for?'
'Holy Virgin, help me! Let me go!'
'Do you want to get killed?'
'Yes, yes! Let go of my wrists!'
'Do you want them to kill you?'
'It doesn't matter if they do,' she cried, slipping from his grasp with a powerful wrench.
Running, panting, sobbing, her hair loose, clapping on the nape of her neck, her dress beating against her legs and throwing her down, then getting up again, crying, filling that serene country silence with her despair, she ran after the two sets of men by the same road, turning behind the same hill with green trees. She found herself in a narrow country road, and instinctively followed it, feeling it was the right one. She went on and on very swiftly, bursting with sobs, her ears alert, questioning the silence. But on the right a harsh, sharp sound made her jump; just after it came another shot, then another. She rushed into the field where the two files of low-class duellists were going on firing at each other at a short range. Throwing herself on Raffaele, she shrieked wildly.
'Go away!' he said, trying to free himself.