Massaio patted the cheek, which was like an apricot, and believed her.
Her aunt did not.
'There is still snow where the man of God lives up yonder, and there is no water, only dust, on her shoes,' thought the shrewd observer.
But she did not say so; for she had no wish to put her husband out of humour with her kinsfolk.
But to Santina, when with her alone, she said testily:
'I fear you are going again to the black arts of that woman Lisabetta; no good ever is got of them; it is playing with fire, and the devil breathes the fire out of his mouth!'
'I cannot play with it if I wished,' said Santina innocently; 'Lisabetta is dead months ago.'
'That is no loss to anybody if it be true,' said Eufemia Massaio angrily.
Lisabetta had been such an obscure and lonely creature, that her death had been taken little note of anywhere, and the busy, bustling housewife of Massaio had had no heed of such an event. She had not even known the woman by sight; had only been cognizant of her evil repute for powers of sorcery.
Santina went up to her room, which she shared with three of the Massaio children. Long after they were sleeping in a tangle of rough hair and brown limbs and healthy rosy nudity, the girl, their elder, sat up on the rude couch staring at the moon through the little square window.