'I don't understand,' said Lucy.
'Per Dio! what does it matter?' said the man, laughing. 'The people here wouldn't trouble their heads, only—But you understand, Signorina'—he dropped his voice a little—'the priests have much power—molto, molto! Don Teodoro, the parroco there,—it was he founded the cassa rurale. If a contadino wants some money for his seed-corn—or to marry his daughter—or to buy himself a new team of oxen—he must go to the parroco. Since these new banks began, it is the priests that have the money—capisce? If you want it you must ask them! So you understand, Signorina, it doesn't profit to fall out with them. You must love their friends, and—' His grin and gesture finished the sentence.
'But what's the matter?' said Lucy, wondering. 'Has he committed any crime?' And she looked curiously at the figure in the convent window.
'È un prete spretato, Signorina.'
'Spretato?' (unpriested—unfrocked). The word was unfamiliar to her. She frowned over it.
'Scomunicato!' said the carabiniere, with a laugh.
'Excommunicated?' She felt a thrill of pity, mingled with a vague horror.
'Why?—what has he done?'
The carabiniere laughed again. The laugh was odious, but she was already acquainted with that strange instinct of the lower-class Italian which leads him to make mock of calamity. He has passion, but no sentiment; he instinctively hates the pathetic.
'Chi sa, Signorina? He seems a quiet old man. We keep a sharp eye on him; he won't do any harm. He used to give the children confetti, but the mothers have forbidden them to take them. Gianni there'—he pointed to the convent, and Lucy understood that he referred to the contadino—'Gianni went to Don Teodoro, and asked if he should turn him out. But Don Teodoro wouldn't say Yes or No. He pays well, but the village want him to go. They say he will bring them ill-luck with their harvest.'