rothers nor cousins. No man was there to carry on the
vendetta. His mother, the old woman, alone pondered over it.

On the other side of the straits she saw, from morning until night, a
little white speck on the coast. It was the little Sardinian village
Longosardo, where Corsican criminals take refuge when they are too
closely pursued. They compose almost the entire population of this
hamlet, opposite their native island, awaiting the time to return, to go
back to the "maquis." She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had sought refuge in
this village.

All alone, all day long, seated at her window, she was looking over there
and thinking of revenge. How could she do anything without
help--she, an invalid and so near death? But she had promised, she
had sworn on the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What
could she do? She no longer slept at night; she had neither rest nor
peace of mind; she thought persistently. The dog, dozing at her feet,
would sometimes lift her head and howl. Since her master's death she
often howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her beast's
soul, inconsolable too, had also retained a recollection that nothing
could wipe out.

One night, as Semillante began to howl, the mother suddenly got hold of
an idea, a savage, vindictive, fierce idea. She thought it over until
morning. Then, having arisen at daybreak she went to church. She prayed,
prostrate on the floor, begging the Lord to help her, to support her, to
give to her poor, broken-down body the strength which she needed in order
to avenge her son.

She returned home. In her yard she had an old barrel, which acted as a
cistern. She turned it over, emptied it, made it fast to the ground with
sticks and stones. Then she chained Semillante to this improvised kennel
and went into the house.

She walked ceaselessly now, her eyes always fixed on the distant coast of
Sardinia. He was over there, the murderer.

All day and all night the dog howled. In the morning the old woman
brought her some water in a bowl, but nothing more; no soup, no bread.

Another day went by. Semillante, exhausted, was sleeping. The following
day her eyes were shining, her hair on end and she was pulling wildly at
her chain.

All this day the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The beast, furious,
was barking hoarsely. Another night went by.

Then, at daybreak, Mother Saverini asked a neighbor for some straw. She
took the old rags which had former