The name of the saint broke from all throats, like a war-cry.  The most excited hurled curses towards the river, and waved their arms and shook their fists.  Then all these faces blazing with anger, and reddened also by the unusual light,—­all these faces, broad and massive, to which their gold ear-rings and thick overhanging hair gave a wild, barbaric character,—­all these faces turned eagerly towards the man lying there, and grew soft with pity.  Women, with pious care, tried to bring him back to life.  Loving hands changed the cloths on his wounds, sprinkled water in his face, set the gourd of wine to his lips, made a sort of pillow under his head.

“Pallura, poor Pallura, won’t you answer?” He lay supine, his eyes closed, his mouth half open, with brown soft hair on his cheeks and chin, the gentle beauty of youth still showing in his features contracted with pain.  From beneath the bandage on his forehead a mere thread of blood trickled down over his temples; at the corners of his mouth stood little beads of pale red foam, and from his throat issued a faint broken hiss, like the sound of a sick man gargling.  About him attentions, questions, feverish glances multiplied.  The mare from time to time shook her head and neighed in the direction of the houses.  An atmosphere as of an impending hurricane hung over the whole town.

Then from the square rang out the screams of a woman, of a mother.  They seemed all the louder for the sudden hushing of all other voices, and an enormous woman, suffocated in her fat, broke through the crowd and hurried to the wagon, crying aloud.  Being heavy and unable to climb into it, she seized her son’s feet, with sobbing words of love, with such sharp broken cries and such a terribly comic expression of grief, that all the bystanders shuddered and averted their faces.

“Zaccheo!  Zaccheo!  My heart, my joy!” screamed the widow unceasingly, kissing the feet of the wounded man and dragging him to her towards the ground.

The wounded man stirred, his mouth was contorted by a spasm, but although he opened his eyes and looked up, they were veiled with damp, so that he could not see.  Big tears began to well forth at the corners of his eyelids and roll down over his cheeks and neck.  His mouth was still awry.  A vain effort to speak was betrayed by the hoarse whistling in his throat.  And the crowd pressed closer, saying: 

“Speak, Pallura!  Who hurt you?  Who hurt you?  Speak!  Speak!”

Beneath this question was a trembling rage, an intensifying fury, a deep tumult of reawakened feelings of vengeance; and the hereditary hatred boiled in every heart.

“Speak!  Who hurt you?  Tell us!  Tell us!”

The dying man opened his eyes again; and as they were holding his hands tightly, perhaps this warm living contact gave him a momentary strength, for his gaze quickened and a vague stammering sound came to his lips.  The words were not yet distinguishable.  The panting breath of the multitude could be heard through the silence.  Their eyes had an inward flame, because all expected one single word.