There they stand the livelong day outside Donna Elisa’s door. There stand Donna Concetta and Donna Emilia. No love has been lost between them in former times, but to-day they stand beside one another and mourn.
Many anxious eyes peer in through the windows of Donna Elisa’s house. Little Gandolfo and old Assunta from the Cathedral steps, and the poor old chair-maker, stand there the whole afternoon without tiring. It is so terrible that Gaetano is going to die just when they have got him back again.
The blind stand and wait as if they expected him to give them their sight, and the poor people, both from Geraci and Corvaja, are waiting to hear how it will turn out for their young lord, the last Alagona.
He wished them well, and he had great strength and power. If he could only have lived—
“God has taken his hand from Sicily,” they say. “He lets all those perish who wish to help the people.”
All the afternoon and evening, and even till midnight, the crowd of people are still outside Donna Elisa’s house. At precisely twelve o’clock Donna Elisa throws open the shop-door and comes out on the steps. “Is he better?” they all cry at the sight of her.—“No, he is not better.”
Then there is silence; but at last a single trembling voice asks: “Is he worse?”—“No, no; he is not worse. He is the same. The doctor is with him.”
Donna Elisa has thrown a black shawl over her head and carries a lantern in her hand. She goes down the steps to the street, where the people are sitting and lying, closely packed one beside one another. She makes her way quietly through them.
“Is Gandolfo here?” she asks. “Yes, Donna Elisa.” And Gandolfo comes forward to her.
“You must come with me and open your church for me.”