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His vessel was the only refuge for the rest of his life, and he must resort to it like the great criminals of other centuries who had taken refuge in the isolation of monasteries. He needed to vent his wrath on somebody, to find some responsible person whom he might blame for his misfortunes. Cinta had revealed herself to him as an entirely new being.
He was thinking with horror of what Cinta could say if she knew the magnitude of his sin.
Many times they would remain in a long silence. Don Pedro represented patience, even temper, and silent respect, in that tranquil and immaculate house which lost its monastic calm only when its head presented himself there for a few days between voyages. Cinta had accustomed herself to the professor's visits. At half-past three by the clock his footsteps could always be heard in the passageway.
It was his fault that the boy had undertaken the crazy journey at whose end death was awaiting him..... The devout Cinta looked upon this misfortune as a chastisement from God, always complicated and mysterious in His designs. Divinity, in order to make the father expiate his crimes, had killed the son without thinking of the mother upon whom the blow rebounded. Toni went away.
He could not endure the glances and the allusions made by Doña Cinta. And as though this emotion were not enough, he received the news a few hours later of his captain's wretched condition, news which obliged him to make the trip to Marseilles immediately.
Cinta fixed her gaze on the almanac as the wife of a clerk fixes it on the clock. She had the certainty that when three months should have passed by she would see him reappear, coming from the other side of the world laden down with exotic gifts, just as a husband who returns from the office with a bouquet bought in the street.
Let every one get out of such matters as best he could. And one evening when Cinta was going from the parlor to her aunt's bedroom in order to bring her a devotional book, she collided with Ulysses in the passageway. If she had not known him, she might have trembled for her existence. She felt herself grasped by a pair of powerful hands that lifted her up from the floor.
They were separated by a distance, as hard and luminous as a diamond, that made every attempt at drawing nearer together useless. Cinta never smiled. Her eyes were dry, trying not to weep while her husband was near her, but giving herself up freely to grief when she was alone. Her duty was to make his existence bearable, hiding her thoughts.
"He doesn't come on my account," said the good señora, "who would bother about an old woman like me?... I tell you that he is in love with Cinta, and it will be good luck for the child to marry a man so wise, so serious...."
A new Italy was born the Italy of the Italian nation. In the words of Mameli's immortal hymn, which has been revived as the war-song of the Nationalists, "Fratelli d'Italia, l'Italia s'è desta, Dell' elmo di Scipio s'è cinta la testa." The actual operations of the war were too one-sided to be interesting from the military viewpoint.
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