He put up his hands to his eyes
to rub the moisture that clouded them away. But it came again. And he
swore under his breath. He looked once more towards the Casa del Mare.
The figure of his Padrona had disappeared, but he remembered just how
it had gone up the steps--leaning forward, moving very slowly. It had
made him think of an early morning long ago, when he and his Padrona
had followed a coffin down the narrow street of Marechiaro, and over
the mountain-path to the Campo Santo above the Ionian Sea. He shook
his head, murmuring to himself. He was not swearing now. He shook his
head again and again. Then he went away, and sat down under the shadow
of the cliff, and let his hands drop down between his knees.
The look he had seen in his Padrona's eyes had made him feel terrible.
His violent, faithful heart was tormented. He did not analyze--he only
knew, he only felt. And he suffered horribly. How had his Padrona been
able to look at him like that?
The moisture came thickly to his eyes now, and he no longer attempted
to rub it away.
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