His voice was more quiet now. He fixed his eyes almost sternly on his padrone, as if in the effort to read his very soul.
"Well? Well, Gaspare?"
Maurice was almost stammering now. He guessed—he knew what was coming.
"Salvatore came up to me just before I got to the village. I heard him calling, 'Stop!' I stood still. We were on the path not far from the fountain. There was a broken branch on the ground, a branch of olive. Salvatore said: 'Suppose that is your padrone, that branch there!' and he spat on it. He spat on it, signore, he spat—and he spat."
Maurice knew now.
And this time there was no uncertainty in his voice. Gaspare was breathing hard. His breast rose and fell.
"I was going to strike him in the face, but he caught my hand, and then—Signorino, signorino, what have you done?"
His voice rose. He began to look uncontrolled, distracted, wild, as if he might do some frantic thing.
"Gaspare! Gaspare!"