“You know that you can speak freely to me, Santuzza,” said the girl.
“Orestes is no longer at the Grotte mines; you know that, I suppose. He is at Racalmuto. And he is very badly off there. Not that the pay is so bad, but the engineer is a man who grinds down the poor to the last drop of blood.”
The old woman told how the engineer tortured the miners. He made them work over time; he fined them if they missed a day. He did not look after the mines properly; there was one cave-in after another. No one was secure of his life as long as he was under earth.
“Well, Margherita, Orestes had a son. A splendid boy; just ten years old. The engineer came and wished to buy the boy from Orestes, and set him to work with the little wagons. But Orestes said no. His boy should not be ruined by such work.
“Then the engineer threatened him, and said that Orestes would be dismissed from the mine.”
Santuzza paused.
“And then?” asked Margherita.
“Yes, then Orestes gave his son to the engineer. The next day the boy got a whipping from him. He beat him every day. The boy grew more and more feeble. Orestes saw it, and asked the engineer to spare the boy, but he had no mercy. He said that the boy was lazy, and he continued to persecute him. And now he is dead. My grandson is dead, Margherita.”
The girl had quite forgotten all her own happiness. She was once more only the miner’s daughter, the protector of the little wagons, the poor child who used to sit on the bright terrace and weep over the hardships of the black mines.
“Why do you let the man live?” she cried.