“Am I not?”
“No, no!” She took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Do you not see? do you not understand? It is taken from you.”
Little Gandolfo’s voice was heard in the path outside the church. “Donna Micaela, Donna Micaela, where are you? There are so many people, Donna Micaela. Do you hear; do you hear?”
“Is it no longer raining?” said the jettatore, in an uncertain voice.
“It is not raining; how could it be raining? The Christ-image has taken the curse from you because you are going to work for his railway.”
The man reeled and grasped at the air with his hands. “It is gone. Yes, I think it is gone. Just now it was there. But now—”
He wished again to fall on his knees before Donna Micaela.
“Not to me,” she said; “to him, to him.” She pointed to the Christ-image.
But nevertheless he fell down before her. He kissed her hands, and with a voice broken by sobs he told her how every one had hated and persecuted him, and how much misery life had brought him hitherto.