“There has been a disagreement by the town-gate,” he said. “It is nothing. If I had been able to inflame all Etna, the whole circle of towns round about Etna! Then they would have understood us! they would have listened to us! Now they are shooting down a few hungry peasants to make a few hungry mouths the less. They do not yield an inch to us.”
He strove to break through his cobwebs. Could he venture to go up to her, to tell her that all that was of no importance? He did not need to think of politics. He was an artist; he was free! And he wanted to possess her!
Suddenly it seemed as if the air trembled. A shot echoed through the night, then another and another.
She came forward to him and grasped his wrist. “Is that the uprising?” she asked.
Shot upon shot came thundering. Then were heard the cries and din of a crowd rushing down the street.
“It is the uprising; it must be the uprising! Ah, long live socialism!”
He was filled with joy. Entire faith in his belief came back to him. He would win her too. Women have never refused to belong to the victor.
They both hurried without another word through the garden to the door. There Gaetano began to swear and call. He could not get out. There was no key in the lock. He was shut into the garden.
He looked about. There were high walls on three sides, and on the fourth an abyss. There was no way out for him. But from the town came a terrible noise. The people were rushing up and down; there were shots and cries. And they heard them yell: “Long live freedom! Long live socialism!” He threw himself against the door, and almost shrieked. He was imprisoned; he could not take part.