I

The great sandy square scintillated as if spread with powdered pumice stone. All of the houses around it, whitened with plaster, seemed red hot like the walls of an immense furnace whose fire was about to die out. In the distance, the pilasters of the church reflected the radiation of the clouds and became red as granite, the Windows flashed as if they might contain an internal conflagration; the sacred images possessed personalities alive with colour; the entire structure, beneath the splendour of this meteoric twilight, assumed a more lofty power of dominion over the houses of Radusani.

There moved from the streets to the square groups of men and women, vociferating and gesticulating. In the souls of all, superstitious terror was rapidly becoming intense; in all of those uncultivated imaginations a thousand terrible images of divine chastisement arose; comments, passionate contentions, lamentable conjurations, disconnected tales, prayers, cries mingled with the ominous rumbling of an imminent hurricane.

Already for many days that bloody redness had lingered in the sky after the sunset, had invaded the tranquillity of the night, illuminated tragically the slumber of the fields, aroused the howls of the dogs.

“Giacobbe! Giacobbe!” cried several while waving their arms who previous to this time had spoken in low voices, before the church, crowded around a pilaster of the vestibule. “Giacobbe!”

There issued from the main door and approached the summoners a long and lean man, who seemed ill with a hectic fever, was bald upon the top of his head, and crowned at the temples and neck with long reddish hair.

His small, hollow eyes, animated as if from the ardour of a deep passion, converged slightly toward his nose, and were of an uncertain colour. The lack of the two front teeth of the upper jaw gave to his mouth as he spoke, and to the movements of his sharp chin scattered with hairs, a singular appearance of satyr-like senility. The rest of his body was a miserable architectural structure of bones badly concealed by clothes, while on his hands, on the under sides of his arms and on his breast, his skin was full of azure marks, incisions made with the point of a pin and powder of indigo, in memory of visits to sanctuaries, of grace received, of vows taken.

As the fanatic drew near to the group around the pilaster, a medley of questions arose from these anxious men.

“What then? What had Don Consolo said? Had he made only the arm of silver appear?”

“And was not the entire bust a better omen? When would Pallura return with the candles?”

“Were there a hundred pounds of wax? Only a hundred pounds? And when would the bells begin to sound? What then? What then?”

The clamours increased around Giacobbe; those furthest away drew near to the church; from all the streets the people overflowed on to the piazza and filled it.

Giacobbe replied to the interrogators. He spoke in a low voice, as if he were about to reveal terrible secrets, as if he were the bearer of prophecies from afar. He had witnessed on high, in the centre of blood, a threatening hand and then a black veil, and then a sword and a trumpet....

“Tell us! Tell us!” the others induced him, while watching his face, seized with a strange greediness to hear marvellous things, while, in the meantime the fable sped from mouth to mouth throughout the assembled multitude.

II

The great vermilion clouds mounted slowly from the horizon to the zenith, until they finally filled the entire cupola of the heavens. A vapour as of melted metals seemed to undulate over the roofs of the houses, and in the descending lustre of the twilight sulphurous and violent rays blended together with trembling iridescence.

A long streamer more luminous than the rest escaped toward a street giving on the river front, and there appeared in the distance the flaming of the water between the long, slender shafts of the poplars; then came a border of ragged country, where the old Saracenic towers rose confusedly like islands of stone in the midst of obscurity; oppressive emanations from the reaped hay filled the atmosphere, which was at times like an odour of putrefied worms amongst the foliage. Troops of swallows flew across the sky with shrill-resounding notes, while going from the banks of the river to the caves. The murmuring of the multitude was interrupted by the silence of expectation. The name of Pallura was on all lips, while irate impatience burst out here and there. Along the path of the river they did not as yet see the cart appear; they lacked candles and Don Consolo delayed because of this to expose the relics and make the exorcisms; further, an imminent peril was threatening. Panic invaded all of this people, massed like a herd of beasts, no longer daring to lift their eyes to heaven. From the breasts of the women sobs began to escape, while a supreme consternation oppressed and stupefied all souls at these sounds of grief.

At length the bells rang out. As these bronze forms swung at a low height, the ominous sound of their tolling blanched the faces of all, and a species of continuous howling filled the air, between strokes.

“Saint Pantaleone! Saint Pantaleone!”

There was an immense simultaneous cry for help from these desperate souls. All upon their knees, with extended hands, with white faces, implored, “Saint Pantaleone!”

There appeared at the door of the church, in the midst of the smoke from two censers, Don Consolo in a shining violet cape embroidered with gold. He held on high the sacred arm of silver, and exorcised the air while pronouncing these words in Latin, “Ut fidelibus tuis aeris serenitatem concedere digneris. Te rogamus, audi nos.”

The appearance of the relic excited a delirium of tenderness in the multitude. Tears flowed from all eyes, and behind the clear veil of tears their eyes saw a miraculous, celestial splendour emanate from the three fingers held up to bless the multitude. The arm seemed larger in the kindled atmosphere, the twilight rays produced a dazzling effect on the precious stones, the balsam of the incense was wafted rapidly to the devotees.

“Te rogamus audi nos!”

But when the arm re-entered and the bells ceased to ring, in the momentary silence, they heard nearby a tinkling of bells that came from the road by the river. Then followed a sudden movement of the crowd in that direction and many said, “It is Pallura with the candles! It is Pallura who has come! See Pallura!”

The cart arrived, rattling over the gravel, dragged by a heavy grey mare, on whose back a great brass horn shone like a beautiful half moon. As Giacobbe and the others ran to meet the wagon the gentle beast stopped, blowing heavily from his nostrils. Giacobbe, who reached it first, saw, stretched in the bottom of the cart, the body of Pallura covered with blood, whereupon he began to howl and waved his arms to the crowd, shouting, “He is dead! He is dead!”

III

The sad news passed from mouth to mouth in a flash. The people pressed around the cart, stretched their necks to see the body, no longer thought of threats from above, stricken by this new, unexpected occurrence, invaded by that natural fierce curiosity that men possess in the presence of blood.

“Is he dead? How did he die?”

Pallura rested supine on the boards, with a large wound in the centre of his forehead, with an ear lacerated, with rents in his arms, in his sides, in one thigh. A tepid stream dripped from the hollow of his eyes down to his chin and neck, while it spotted his shirt, formed black and shining clots upon his breast, on his leather belt, and even on his trousers.

Giacobbe remained leaning over the body; all of those around him waited, a light as of the morning illuminated their perplexed faces; and, in that moment of silence, from the banks of the river came the croak of the frogs, and the bats passed and repassed grazing the heads of the people.

Suddenly Giacobbe standing up, with a cheek stained with blood, cried, “He is not dead. He still breathes.”

A dull murmur ran through the crowd, and those nearest stretched themselves to see; the restlessness of those most distant made them break into shouts. Two women brought a flask of water, another some strips of linen, while a youth offered a pumpkin full of wine. The face of the wounded man was bathed, the flow of blood from the forehead stanched and his head raised.

Then there arose loud voices, demanding the cause of all this. The hundred pounds of wax were missing; barely a few fragments of candles remained among the interstices of the boards in the bottom of the cart.

In the midst of the commotion the emotions of the people were kindled more and more, and became more irritable and belligerent. As an ancient hereditary hatred for the country of Mascalico, opposite upon the other bank of the river, was always fermenting, Giacobbe cried venomously in a hoarse voice, “Maybe the candles are being used for Saint Gonselvo?”

This was like a spark of fire. The spirit of the church awoke suddenly in that race, grown brutish through so many years of blind and fierce worship of its one idol. The words of the fanatic sped from mouth to mouth. And beneath the tragic glow of the twilight this tumultuous people had the appearance of a tribe of negro mutineers.

The name of the Saint burst from all throats like a war cry. The most ardent hurled imprecations against the farther side of the river, while shaking their arms and clenching their fists. Then, all of those countenances afire with wrath and wrathful thoughts, round and resolute, whose circles of gold in the ears and thick tufts of hair on the forehead gave them a strange barbarian aspect, all of those countenances turned toward the reclining man, and softened with pity. There was around the cart a pious solicitude shown by the women, who wished to reanimate the suffering man; many loving hands changed the strips of linen on the wounds, sprinkled the face with water, placed the pumpkin of wine to the white lips and made a kind of a pillow beneath the head.

“Pallura, poor Pallura, why do you not answer?”

He remained motionless, with closed hands, with mouth half open, with a brown down on his throat and chin, with a sort of beauty of youth still apparent in his features even though they were strained by the convulsions of pain. From beneath the binding of his forehead a stream of blood dropped down upon his temples, while at the angles of his mouth appeared little bubbles of red foam, and from his throat issued a species of thick, interrupted hissing. Around him the assistance, the questions, the feverish glances increased. The mare every so often shook her head and neighed in the direction of her stable. An oppression as of an imminent hurricane weighed upon the country.

Then one heard feminine cries in the direction of the square, cries of the mother, that seemed even louder in the midst of the sudden silence of the others. An enormous woman, almost suffocated by her flesh, passed through the crowd, and arrived crying at the cart. As she was so heavy as to be unable to climb into the cart, she grasped the feet of her son, with words of love interspersed among her tears, given in a broken voice, so sharp, and with an expression of grief so terribly beast like, that a shiver ran through all of the bystanders and all turned their faces aside.

“Zaccheo! Zaccheo! my heart! my joy!”—the widow cried, over and over again, while kissing the feet of the wounded one, and drawing him to her toward the ground. The wounded man stirred, twisted his mouth in a spasm, opened his eyes wide, but he really could not see, because a kind of humid film covered his sight. Great tears began to flow from the corners of his eyelids and to run down upon his cheeks and neck, his mouth remained twisted, and in the thick hissing of his throat one perceived a vain effort to speak. They crowded around him. “Speak, Pallura! Who has wounded you? Who has wounded you? Speak! Speak!”

And beneath the question their wrath raged; their violent desires intensified, a dull craving for vengeance shook them and that hereditary hatred boiled up again in the souls of all.

“Speak! Who has wounded you? Tell us about it! Tell us about it!”

The dying man opened his eyes a second time, and as they clasped both of his hands, perhaps through the warmth of that living contact the spirit in him revived and his face lighted up. He had upon his lips a vague murmur, betwixt the foam that rose, suddenly more abundant and bloody. They did not as yet understand his words. One could hear in the silence the breathing of the breathless multitude, and all eyes held within their depths a single flame because all minds awaited a single word.

“Ma—Ma—Ma—scalico.”

“Mascalico! Mascalico!” howled Giacobbe, who was bending, with strained ear, to grasp the weak syllables from that dying mouth. An immense cry greeted this explanation. There was at first a confused rising and falling as of a tempest in the multitude. Then when one voice raised above the tumult gave the signal, the multitude disbanded in mad haste.

One single thought pursued those men, one thought that seemed to have flashed instantaneously into the minds of all: to arm themselves with something in order to wound. A species of sanguinary fatality settled upon all consciences beneath the surly splendour of the twilight, in the midst of the electrifying odours emanating from the panting country.

IV

Then the phalanxes, armed with scythes, with sickles, with hatchets, with hoes and with muskets, reunited on the square before the church.

And the idolaters shouted, “Saint Pantaleone!”

Don Consolo, terrified by the turmoil, had fled to the depths of a stall behind the altar. A handful of fanatics, conducted by Giacobbe, penetrated the large chapel, forced its gratings of bronze, and arrived at length in the underground passage where the bust of the Saint was kept. Three lamps fed with olive oil burned gently in the sacristy behind a crystal; the Christian idol sparkled with its white head surrounded by a large solar disc, and the walls were covered over with the rich gifts.

When the idol, borne upon the shoulders of four Hercules, appeared presently between the pilasters of the vestibule, and shed rays from its aureole, a long, breathless passion passed over the expectant crowd, a noise like a joyous wind beat upon all foreheads. The column moved. And the enormous head of the Saint oscillated on high, gazing before it with two empty eyes.

In the heavens now passed at intervals meteors which seemed alive, while groups of thin clouds seemed to detach themselves from the heavens, and, while dissolving, floated slowly away. The entire country of Radusa appeared in the background like a mountain of ashes that might be concealing a fire, and in front of it the contour of the country lost itself with an indistinct flash. A great chorus of frogs disturbed the harmony of the solitude.

On the road by the river Pallura’s cart obstructed progress. It was empty now, but bore traces of blood in many places. Irate imprecations exploded suddenly in the silence.

Giacobbe cried, “Let us put the Saint in it!”

The bust was placed on the boards and dragged by human strength to the ford. The procession, ready for battle, thus crossed the boundary. Along the files metal lamps were carried, the invaded waters broke in luminous sprays, and everywhere a red light flamed from the young poplars in the distance, toward the quadrangular towers. Mascalico appeared upon a little elevation, asleep in the centre of an olive orchard.

The dogs barked here and there, with a furious persistency. The column having issued from the ford, on abandoning the common road, advanced with rapid steps by a direct path that cut through the fields. The bust of silver borne anew on rugged shoulders, towered above the heads of the men amongst the high grain, odorous and starred with living fireflies.

Suddenly, a shepherd, who rested under a straw shed to guard the grain, seized by a mad terror at the sight of so many armed men, began to flee up the coast, screaming as loud as he could, “Help! Help!”

His cries echoed through the olive orchards.

Then it was that the Radusani increased their speed. Among the trunks of trees, amid the dried reeds, the Saint of silver tottered, gave back sonorous tinklings at the blows of the trees, became illuminated with vivid flashes at every hint of a fall. Ten, twelve, twenty shots rained down in a vibrating flash, one after another upon the group of houses. One heard creaks, then cries followed by a great clamorous commotion; several doors opened while others closed, windows fell in fragments and vases of basil fell shivered on the road. A white smoke rose placidly in the air, behind the path of the assailants, up to the celestial incandescence. All blinded, in a belligerent rage, shouted, “To death! To death!”

A group of idolaters maintained their positions around Saint Pantaleone. Atrocious vituperations against Saint Gonselvo burst out amongst the brandished scythes and sickles.

“Thief! Thief! Loafer! The candles!... The candles!”

Other groups besieged the doors of the houses with blows of hatchets. And, as the doors unhinged shattered and fell, the howling Pantaleonites burst inside, ready to kill. Half nude women fled to the corners, imploring pity and, trying to defend themselves from the blows by grasping the weapons and cutting their fingers, they rolled extended on the pavement in the midst of heaps of coverings and sheets from which oozed their flaccid turnip-fed flesh.

Giacobbe, tall, slender, flushed, a bundle of dried bones rendered formidable by passion, director of the slaughter, stopped everywhere in order to make a broad, commanding gesture above all heads with his huge scythe. He walked in the front ranks, fearless, without a hat, in the name of Saint Pantaleone. More than thirty men followed him. And all had the confused and stupid sensation of walking in the midst of fire, upon an oscillating earth, beneath a burning vault that was about to shake down upon them.

But from all sides defenders began to assemble; the Mascalicesi, strong and dark as mulattoes, sanguinary, who struck with long unyielding knives, and tore the stomach and throat, accompanying each blow with guttural cries. The fray drew little by little toward the church, from the roofs of two or three houses burst flames, a horde of women and children escaped precipitately among the olives, seized with panic and no longer with light in their eyes.

Then among the men, without the handicap of the women’s tears and laments, the hand-to-hand struggle grew more ferocious. Beneath the rust-coloured sky the earth was covered with corpses. Vituperations, choked within the teeth of the slain, resounded, and ever above the clamour continued the shout of the Radusani, “The candles! The candles!”

But the entrance of the church was barred by an enormous door of oak studded with nails. The Mascalicesi defended it from the blows and hatchets. The Saint of silver, impassive and white, oscillated in the thick of the fray, still sustained upon the shoulders of the four Hercules, who, although bleeding from head to foot, refused to give up. The supreme vow of the attackers was to place the idol on the altar of the enemy.

Now while the Mascalicesi raged like prodigious lions on the stone steps, Giacobbe disappeared suddenly and skirted the rear of the edifice for an undefended opening by which he could penetrate the sacristy. Finally he discovered an aperture at a slight distance from the ground, clambered up, remained fixed there, held fast at the hips by its narrowness, twisted and turned, until at length he succeeded in forcing his long body through the opening.

The welcome aroma of incense was vanishing in the nocturnal frost of the house of God. Groping in the dark, guided by the crashing of the external blows, the man walked toward the door, stumbling over the chain, and falling on his face and hands.

Radusanian hatchets already resounded upon the hardness of the oak doors, when he began to force the lock with an iron, breathless, suffocated by the violent palpitation of anxiety that sapped his strength, with his eyes blurred by indistinct flashes, with his wounds aching and emitting a tepid stream which flowed down over his skin.

“Saint Pantaleone! Saint Pantaleone!” shouted outside the hoarse voices of those who felt the door yielding slowly, while they redoubled their shouts and the blows of their hatchets. From the other side of the wood resounded the heavy thud of bodies of those that had been murdered and the sharp blow of a knife that had pinioned some one against the door, nailed through the back. And it seemed to Giacobbe that the whole nave throbbed with the beating of his wild heart.

After a final effort, the door swung open. The Radusani rushed in headlong with an immense shout of victory, passing over the bodies of the dead, dragging the Saint of silver to the altar.

An animated oscillation of reflections suddenly illuminated the obscurity of the nave and made the gold of the candelabra glitter. And in that glaring splendour, which now and again was intensified by the burning of the adjacent houses, a second struggle took place. The entangled bodies rolled upon the bricks, remained in a death grip, balanced together here and there in their wrathful struggles, howled and rolled beneath the benches, upon the steps of the chapels and against the corners of the confessionals. In the symmetrical concave of this house of God arose that icy sound of the steel that penetrates the flesh or that grinds through the bones, that single broken groan of a man wounded in a vital part, that rattle that the framework of the skull gives forth when crushed with a blow, that roar of him who dreads to die, that atrocious hilarity of him who has reached the point of exulting in killing, all of these sounds echoed through this house of God. And the calm odour of incense arose above the conflict.

The silver idol had not yet reached the glory of the altar, because the hostile forces, encircling the altar, had prevented it. Giacobbe, wounded in many places, struck with his scythe, never yielding a palm’s breadth of the steps which he had been the first to conquer. There remained but two to support the Saint. The enormous white head rolled as if drunk over the wrathful pool of blood. The Mascalicesi raged.

Then Saint Pantaleone fell to the pavement, giving a sharp rattle that stabbed the heart of Giacobbe deeper than any sword could have done. As the ruddy mower darted over to lift it, a huge demon of a man with a blow from a sickle stretched the enemy on his spine.

Twice he arose, and two other blows hurled him down again. The blood inundated his entire face, breast and hands, while on his shoulders and arms the bones, laid bare by deep wounds, shone out, but still he persisted in recovering. Maddened by his fierce tenacity of life, three, four, five ploughmen together struck him furiously in the stomach, thus disgorging his entrails. The fanatic fell backwards, struck his neck on the bust of the silver Saint, turned suddenly upon his stomach with his face pressed against the metal and with his arms extended before him and his legs contracted under him.

Thus was Saint Pantaleone lost.