rse, found a coin, and gave it to him. Then she walked
on. She did not see him any more. She did not know what became of him.

Of course she had seen the return of Antonio Bernari. She remembered
now. As Ruffo stood before her with the wet hair on his forehead there
had come a shrill cry from the old woman in the kitchen: a cry that was
hideous and yet almost beautiful, so full it was of joy. Then from the
kitchen the two women had rushed in, gesticulating, ejaculating, their
faces convulsed with excitement. They had seized Maddalena, Ruffo. One
of them--the old woman, she thought--had even clutched at Hermione's
arm. The room had been full of cries.

"Ecco! Antonio!"

"Antonio is coming!"

"I have seen Antonio!"

"He is pale! He is white like death!"

"Mamma mia! But he is thin!"

"Ecco! Ecco! He comes! Here he is! Here is Antonio!"

And then the door had been opened, and on the sill a big,
broad-shouldered man had appeared, followed by several other
evil-looking though smiling men. And all the women had hurried to them.
There had been shrill cries, a babel of voices, a noise of kisses.

And Ruffo! Where had he been? What had he done?

Hermione only knew that she had head a rough voice saying:

"Sangue del Diavolo! Let me alone! Give me a glass of wine! Basta!
Basta!"

And then she went out in the street, thinking of the green parrot
and hearing the cries of the sellers, the tram-bells, and Fabiano's
questioning voice.

Now she continued her walk towards the harbor of Mergellina alone. The
thought of the green parrot obsessed her mind.

She saw it before her on its board, with the rolled-up bed towering
behind it. Now it was motionless--only the pupils of its eyes moved.
Now it lifted its claw, bowed its head, shuffled along the board to hear
their conversation better.

She saw it with extreme distinctness, and now she also saw on the wall
of the room near it the "Fattura della Morte"--the green lemon with the
nails stuck through it, like nails driven into a cross.

Vaguely the word "crucifixion" went through her mind. Many people, many
women, had surely been crucified since the greatest tragedy the world
had ever known. What had they felt, they who were only human, they
who could not see the face of the Father, who could--some of them,
perhaps--only hope that there was a Father? What had they felt? Perhaps
scarcely anything. Perhaps merely a sensation of numbness, as if their
whole bodies, and the