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.