“Perhaps you will let me work on your railway?”
He came again close up to her, and they exchanged a few short sentences. “Come forward to the light; I wish to see your face!”--“You think that I am dissembling.”--“I think that you are polite.”--“Why should I be polite to you?”--“That railway means something to you?”--“It means life and happiness to me.”--“How is that?”--“It will win one who is dear to me.”--“Very dear?”
She did not reply, but he read the answer in her face.
He bent his knee to her, and sank his head so low that he could kiss the hem of her dress. “You are good; you are very good. I shall never forget it. If I were not who I am, how I would serve you!”
“You _shall_ serve me,” she said. And she was so moved by his misfortunes that she felt no more fear of his injuring her.
He sprang up. “I will tell you something. You cannot go across the floor without stumbling if I look at you.”
And she tried. She was very much frightened, and had never felt so unsteady as when she took her first step. Then she thought: “If it were for Gaetano’s sake, I could do it.” And then it was easy.
She walked to and fro on the church floor. “Shall I do it again?” He nodded.
As she was walking, the thought flashed through her brain: “The Christchild has taken the curse from him, because he is to help me.” She turned suddenly and came back to him.
“Do you know, do you know? you are no _jettatore_!”
“No, no!” She took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Do you not see? do you not understand? It is taken from you.”
Little Gandolfo’s voice was heard in the path outside the church. “Donna Micaela, Donna Micaela, where are you? There are so many people, Donna Micaela. Do you hear; do you hear?”
“Is it no longer raining?” said the _jettatore_, in an uncertain voice.
“It is not raining; how could it be raining? The Christ-image has taken the curse from you because you are going to work for his railway.”
The man reeled and grasped at the air with his hands. “It is gone. Yes, I think it is gone. Just now it was there. But now--”
He wished again to fall on his knees before Donna Micaela.
“Not to me,” she said; “to him, to him.” She pointed to the Christ-image.
But nevertheless he fell down before her. He kissed her hands, and with a voice broken by sobs he told her how every one had hated and persecuted him, and how much misery life had brought him hitherto.