When Donna Micaela came to the theatre it was a few minutes before eight, and Donna Emilia had not sold a ticket.
But she was not depressed; “Go in, Donna Micaela!” she said; “we shall play at any rate, it is so beautiful. Don Antonio will play it for you and your father and me. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever performed.”
Donna Micaela came into the little hall. It was hung with black, as the big theatres always were in the old days when “The Old Martyrdom” was given. There were dark, silver-fringed curtains on the stage, and the little benches were covered with black.
Immediately after Donna Micaela came in, Don Antonio’s bushy eyebrows appeared in a little hole in the curtain. “Donna Micaela,” he cried, as Donna Emilia had done, “we shall play at any rate. It is so beautiful, it needs no spectators.”
Just then came Donna Emilia herself, and opened the door, and courtesying, held it back. It was the priest, Don Matteo, who entered.
“What do you say to me, Donna Micaela?” he said, laughing. “But you understand; it is ‘The Old Martyrdom.’ I saw it in my youth at the big opera in Palermo; and I believe that it was that old play that made me become a priest.”
The next time the door opened it was Father Elia and Brother Tommaso, who came with their violins under their arms and felt their way to their usual places, as quietly as if they had never had any disagreement with Don Antonio.
The door opened again. It was an old woman from the alley above the house of the little Moor. She was dressed in black, and made the sign of the cross as she came in.
After her came four, five other old women; and Donna Micaela looked at them almost resentfully, as they gradually filled the theatre. She knew that Don Antonio would not be satisfied till he had his own public back again,--till he had his self-willed, beloved boys to play for.
Suddenly she heard a hurricane or thunder. The doors flew open,--all at the same time! It was the boys. They threw themselves down in their usual places, as if they had come back to their home.
They looked at one another, a little ashamed. But it had been impossible for them to see one old woman after another go into their theatre to see what was being played for them. It had been quite impossible to see the whole street full of old distaff-spinners in slow procession toward the theatre, and so they had rushed in.