As dawn was breaking, Lucrezia and Gaspare climbed slowly up the mountain-side towards the cottage. Lucrezia's eyes were red, for she had just bidden good-bye to Sebastiano, who was sailing that day for the Lipari Isles, and she did not know how soon he would be back. Sebastiano had not cried. He loved change, and was radiant at the prospect of his voyage. But Lucrezia's heart was torn. She knew Sebastiano, knew his wild and adventurous spirit, his reckless passion for life, and the gifts it scatters at the feet of lusty youth. There were maidens in the Lipari Isles. They might be beautiful. She had scarcely been jealous of Sebastiano before her betrothal to him, for then she had had no rights over him, and she was filled with the spirit of humbleness that still dwells in the women of Sicily, the spirit that whispers "Man may do what he will." But now something had arisen within her to do battle with that spirit. She wanted Sebastiano for her very own, and the thought of his freedom when away tormented her.
Gaspare comforted her in perfunctory fashion.
"What does it matter?" he said. "When you are married you can keep him in the house, and make him spin the flax for you."
And he laughed aloud. But when they drew near to the cottage he said:
"Zitta, Lucrezia! The padrone is asleep. We must steal in softly and not waken him."
On tiptoe they crept along the terrace.
"He will have left the door open for us," whispered Gaspare. "He has the revolver beside him and will not have been afraid."
But when they stood before the steps the door was shut. Gaspare tried it gently. It was locked.
"Phew!" he whistled. "We cannot get in, for we cannot wake him."
Lucrezia shivered. Sorrow had made her feel cold.