He kept his hand on hers and held it on the warm ground.
"Perhaps it is the sun," he said. "I lose my head here, and I—lose my heart!"
She still looked rather surprised, and again her ignorance fascinated him. He thought that it was far more attractive than any knowledge could have been.
"I'm horribly happy here, but I oughtn't to be happy."
"Why, signorino? It is better to be happy."
"Per Dio!" he exclaimed.
Now a deep desire to have his revenge upon Salvatore came to him, but not at all because it would hurt Salvatore. The cruelty had gone out of him. Maddalena's eyes of a child had driven it away. He wanted his revenge only because it would be an intense happiness to him to have it. He wanted it because it would satisfy an imperious desire of tender passion, not because it would infuriate a man who hated him. He forgot the father in the daughter.
"Suppose I were quite poor, Maddalena!" he said.
"But you are very rich, signorino."
"But suppose I were poor, like Gaspare, for instance. Suppose I were as I am, just the same, only a contadino, or a fisherman, as your father is. And suppose—suppose"—he hesitated—"suppose that I were not married!"