Master Alfio was one of those carters who wear the cap well down over one ear, and to hear his wife talked of in this fashion made him change color as though he had been stabbed. “Holy big devil!” he exclaimed, “if you have not seen aright, I won’t leave you eyes to weep with, you and your whole family!”
“I have forgotten how to weep!” answered Santa; “I did not weep even when I saw with these very eyes Mistress Nunzia’s son, Turridu, go in at night to your wife’s house.”
“Then it is well,” replied Alfio; “many thanks to you.”
Now that the husband was home again, Turridu no longer wasted his days in the little street, but drowned his sorrow at the tavern with his friends; and on Easter eve they had on the table a big dish of sausage. When Master Alfio came in, just from the way he fastened his eyes upon him, Turridu understood what business he had come on, and laid his fork down upon his plate.
“How can I serve you, friend Alfio?” he asked.
“Nothing important; friend Turridu, it is some time since I have seen you, and I wanted to talk with you of the matter that you know about.”
Turridu had at once offered him a glass, but Alfio put it aside with his hand. Then Turridu arose and said to him: “Here I am, friend Alfio.”
The carter threw an arm around his neck.
“If you will come to-morrow morning down among the prickly pears of Canziria, we can talk of this affair, friend Turridu.”
“Wait for me on the high-road at sunrise, and we will go together.”