Donna Micaela’s glance fell on a strange man who was leaning against a pillar, watching her. Now all at once she recognized him. He was the jettatore—the jettatore from Catania, whom people had taught her to fear as a child.
Donna Micaela went quickly over to him. “Come with me, signor,” she said, and went before him. She wished to go so far away that no one should hear them, and then she wished to beg of him never to come before her eyes again. She could do no less. He must not ruin her whole life.
She did not think in what direction she went. Suddenly she was at the door of the monastery church and turned in there.
Within, it was almost dark. Only by the Christ-image a little oil lamp was burning.
When Donna Micaela saw the Christ-image she was startled. Just then she had not wished to see him.
He reminded her of the time when his crown had rolled to Gaetano’s feet, when he had been so angry with the brigands. Perhaps the Christ-image did not wish her to drive away the jettatore.
She had good reason to fear the jettatore. It was wrong of him to come to her entertainment; she must somehow be rid of him.
Donna Micaela had gone on through the whole church, and now stood and looked at the Christ-image. She could not say a word to the man who followed her.
She remembered what sympathy she had lately felt for him, because a prisoner, like Gaetano. She had been so happy that she had tempted him out to life. What did she now wish to do? Did she wish to send him back to captivity?