As though by a special fate, Donna Micaela is in Palermo that night. She is there to start one of those new undertakings which she thinks she ought to organize in order to retain life and reason. She is probably there either on account of the draining or of the marble quarry.
She is down at the harbor; like all the others. People notice her as she pushes her way forward to the edge of the water: a tall, dark woman, with an air of being some one, a pale face with marked features and imploring, longing, passionate eyes.
During the reception in the harbor, Donna Micaela is fighting out a strange struggle. “If it were Gaetano,” she thinks, “could I, could I—
“If it were for him all these people were rejoicing, could I—”
There is so much joy—a joy the like of which she has never seen. The people love one another and are like brothers. And that not only because a socialist is coming home, but because they all believe that the earth will soon be happy. “If he were to come now, while all this joy is roaring about me,” she thinks. “Could I, could I—”
She sees Bosco’s carriage trying to force a way through the crowd. It moves forward step by step. For long moments it stands quite still. It will take several hours to come up from the harbor.
“If it were he, and I saw every one crowding round him, could I forbear from throwing myself into his arms? Could I?”
As soon as she can work her way out of the crowd she takes a carriage, drives out of Palermo, and passes through the plain of Conca d’Oro to the big Cathedral of the old Norman kings in Monreale.