I was so startled that I very nearly screamed. The thing
happened so swiftly, with no word.
There behind me was a woman, an old foreign woman, a peasant from
some land of southern Europe. She had my hand huddled up to her
mouth.
And she began to speak, bending her aged body, and with every
expression of respect.
"Ah, Contessa, he is not do it, my Umberto. He is run away in
fear to hide in the Barrington quarry. It is accident. It is
the doing of the good God. Ah, Contessa," and her old lips
dabbed against my hand. "I beg him to not go, but he is
discharge; an' he make the threat like the great fool. Ah,
Contessa, Contessa," and she went over the words with absurd
repetition, "believe it is by chance, believe it is the doing of
the good God, I pray you." And so she ran on in her quaint
old-world words.
Instantly I remembered the man lying by the roadside, and the
threats of discharged workmen.
I told her the thing was a clean accident, and tried to show her
how it came about. She was effusive in gratitude for my belief.
But she seemed concerned about Marion and the others. She did
not go away; she went over and sat down beside the track.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291