Sebastiano, Lucrezia?"

Lucrezia reddened under her brown skin.

"Si, signora."

"So do I. He's always been a good friend of mine."

Lucrezia shifted along the seat until she was nearly opposite to where
Hermione was sitting.

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-five, signora."

"I suppose he will be marrying soon, won't he? The men all marry young
round about Marechiaro."

Lucrezia began to darn.

"His father, Chinetti Urbano, wishes him to marry at once. It is better
for a man."

"You understand men, Lucrezia?"

"Si, signora. They are all alike."

"And what are they like?"

"Oh, signora, you know as well as I do. They must have their own way and
we must not think to have ours. They must roam where they like, love
where they choose, day or night, and we must sit in the doorway and get
to bed at dark, and not bother where they've been or what they've done.
They say we've no right, except one or two. There's Francesco, to be
sure. He's a lamb with Maria. She can sit with her face to the street.
But she wouldn't sit any other way, and he knows it. But the rest! Eh,
gia!"

"You don't think much of men, Lucrezia!"

"Oh, signora, they're just as God made them. They can't help it any more
than we can help--"

She stopped and pursed her lips suddenly, as if checking some words that
were almost on them.

"Lucrezia, come here and sit by me."

Lucrezia looked up with a sort of doubtful pleasure and surprise.

"Signora?"

"Come here."

Lucrezia got up and came slowly to the seat by the ravine. Hermione took
her hand.

"You like Sebastiano very much, don't you?"

Lucrezia hung her head.

"Si, signora," she whispered.

"Do you think he'd be good to a woman if she loved him?"

"I shouldn't care. Bad or good, I'd--I'd--"

Suddenly, with a sort of childish violence, she put her two hands on
Hermione's arms.

"I want Sebastiano, signora; I want him!" she cried. "I've prayed to the
Madonna della Rocca to give him to me; all last year I've prayed, and
this. D'you think the Madonna's going to do it? Do you? Do you?"

Heat came out of her two hands, and heat flashed in her eyes. Her broad
bosom heaved, and her lips, still parted when she had done speaking,
seemed to interrogate Hermione fiercely in the silence. Before Hermione
could reply two sounds came to them: from below in the ravine the distant
drone of the ceramella, from above on the mountain-top the dry crack of a
pistol-shot.

Swiftly Lucrezia turn