Ippolito was committed for trial on the charge of having killed
Francesco Pagliuca in the church of Santa Vittoria, and Tebaldo Pagliuca
was the principal witness against him. That was the result of the
preliminary examination in Messina.
No one believed that Ippolito had committed the crime, neither the judge
nor the prefect of the province, nor the carabineers who had arrested
him and brought him down. Yet the evidence was such that it was
impossible to acquit him, and his obstinate silence, after a simple
denial of the charge, puzzled the authorities. It was the expressed
opinion of the judge that, in any case, and supposing that the priest
were guilty, it was not a murder, but a homicide committed in a
struggle, which had been the result of a quarrel entirely unaccounted
for. Taking Tebaldo's own story as true, it was clear that Francesco's
appearance in the church had been too sudden and unexpected to allow of
the smallest premeditation on Ippolito's part. Tebaldo said that he had
come in and seen the two fighting. The judge observed that, if a
struggle had taken place, it was more than probable that Francesco,
coming suddenly upon Ippolito, had sprung upon him to avenge himself for
having been maltreated by the priest on the previous day. Here Orsino
rose and told the story of that first quarrel, as he had heard it from
his brother immediately after it had occurred. On being questioned,
Ippolito admitted the perfect truth of the story, and the judge ordered
that Concetta's evidence should be taken at Santa Vittoria by a deputy
of the court.
Tebaldo had been in complete ignorance of the truth about Concetta, but
he saw that it would be best to take the judge's view. For all he knew,
he said, his brother might have attacked Ippolito on entering the
church. Ippolito was at liberty to say so, if he chose, observed
Tebaldo. The fact did not militate against his own story, in the least.
On the contrary, it accounted for the struggle. Francesco was unarmed,
however. Tebaldo was prepared to swear to that, and did. Ippolito did
not know it, and, being attacked suddenly, might have drawn his knife
and defended himself.
The worst of all this was that it lent a faint air of probability to the
accusation, of which Tebaldo, with his usual quickness, took advantage
at once. But the judge, in his heart, was no more inclined to believe
Ippolito guilty than before, though he saw no way of acquitting him. The
young priest stood calm and self-possessed between the carabineers
throughout the whole examination, and his quiet eyes made Tebaldo
uncomfortable.
San Giacinto arrived from Rome before the hearing was finished, and
entered the court-room when Tebaldo was speaking. There was something so
gloomily ominous about the grey old giant's eyes that even Tebaldo's
voice changed a little as he spoke. San Giacinto had twice, in serious
affairs, been the means of clearing matters up suddenly and completely,
and as Orsino grasped his huge hand, he felt that all would be well.
The judge admitted Ippolito to bail, and San Giacinto offered himself
and was accepted as surety, being a large landowner in Sicily and a
person well known throughout the country. The trial would probably not
take place before the autumn, but there is a great latitude allowed in
Italy, in the matter of bail, except when the prisoner is charged with
premeditated murder.
'I think,' said San Giacinto to the judge, when the proceedings were
officially closed, 'that it would be worth your while to visit Santa
Vittoria in person.'
Tebaldo heard and listened, and he thought of the knife under the altar.
If the judge should go to the church and insist upon examining
everything thoroughly, it might be found.
'The second hearing will not come before me,' observed the judge.
'Nevertheless--' He hesitated a moment and then spoke in a lower tone.
'The case interests me very much,' he said. 'I should like to see the
place where it happened. I might take that country girl's evidence
myself, and visit the church at the same time. Yes, I think I shall
accept the suggestion.'
Though he had lowered his voice, Tebaldo had heard most of what he had
said, and more than enough to increase the fear of discovery, which was
rapidly growing up in the place of the cynical certainty of safety which
he had at first felt. Nor had the examination gone so absolutely against
Ippolito as he had hoped. The judge and the officials were evidently in
sympathy with the accused man, and Tebaldo had been heard with a sort of
cold reserve which suggested a doubt in his hearers. Like Aliandra and
her father, they all felt the utter improbability of the story, as they
compared the accused with the accuser, though they had been obliged to
admit just so much as they had no means of denying.
The view taken by the law on the strength of the whole evidence can be
summed up in a few words. Francesco Pagliuca had assaulted a young
country girl on the high-road. She had screamed for help. Ippolito
Saracinesca had been near and had saved her and soundly beaten her
assailant. On the very next occasion of meeting him by accident,
Francesco had rushed at the priest to repay his score of blows, and the
priest, taken unawares, had defended himself with a knife he had about
him, and which his brother had insisted that he should carry, for the
very reason that he might, at any moment, be assaulted by Francesco. It
was not justifiable homicide, assuredly, but there were a great many
extenuating circumstances. That was as much as the men of the law could
say for Ippolito, on the evidence; but not one of them believed that he
had killed Francesco.
The three Saracinesca men left the court together and drove away in a
closed carriage. They decided that Orsino and Ippolito should return to
Rome at once and quiet the family by their appearance, while San
Giacinto went up to Camaldoli, to keep matters in order as far as he
could. Orsino offered to go back alone, if San Giacinto would accompany
his brother, but the big man preferred to take matters into his own
hands, as he usually did when there was a crisis of any sort.
When the two brothers were alone in their compartment in the train that
left Reggio that evening. Orsino drew a long breath. The sunset glow was
over the hills, and the rushing breeze that blew in through the open
window was sweet and clean to the taste after the foul air of filthy
Messina and the almost more poisonous atmosphere of the court-room.
Orsino looked out in silence for a few moments, too glad to speak to
Ippolito. When he looked round at last, he saw that his brother was
leaning back in the opposite corner, with closed eyes, one hand thrust
into the bosom of his cassock, the other lying upon the seat behind him.
Orsino watched him, expecting that presently he would open his eyes and
begin to talk. But Ippolito had fallen asleep almost instantly in his
corner, exhausted by the long strain of days and nights spent in
terrible anxiety.
No one ever knew what he had suffered during that time. Though of a
fibre different from his father and his brothers, he was strong and
healthy, but in those few days he had become thin and white, so that he
looked positively delicate now, as he leaned back in his corner.
His anxiety had not been all for himself. It was a fearful thing,
indeed, to be accused of murder, and be led like a murderer through a
yelling rabble, to be lodged in a prison, to be thrust forward to the
bar of a crowded court-room to answer for a great crime. But it was
worse to be accused by the real murderer and to be bound by one of the
most solemn of all vows to keep that murderer's secret and bear his
accusation without giving one hint of the truth.
It was no wonder that at the first relief from such a tension, he should
fall asleep at last, and Orsino was glad when he saw and partly
understood. He had slept little himself since the night of Francesco's
death, but he could not have rested now, for he still had much anxiety
and many things to disturb his peace. He was in profound ignorance of
what had happened to Vittoria and her mother, though he had been almost
hourly in communication with his own family.
Corona's first impulse had been to leave Rome instantly and join her
sons, and it had been with the greatest difficulty that Giovanni had
persuaded her to await the result of the preliminary hearing. He himself
was afraid to leave her, and he had perfect confidence in San Giacinto.
He was in reality most preoccupied about his wife; for he, like everyone
else, was struck from the first by the outrageous improbability of the
accusation. He hardly ate or slept, himself, it was true, but he was all
along perfectly certain that Ippolito must be at liberty in a few days,
and that the whole truth must be known before long.
Corona said little after she had consented to remain at home, but she
suffered intensely. The beautiful high features were like a white marble
mask, and when she spoke at all, her words were brief, nervous, almost
hard. Her eyes were like black steel, and her figure grew slighter, and
seemed to grow taller, too. Giovanni thought that the little, soft, grey
streaks in her intensely black hair were suddenly growing broad and
silvery. He was almost more anxious for her than for Ippolito.
But she never broke down in any way. She showed herself to the world, in
her carriage, as if nothing had happened, though she received no one
during those days. She knew how to bear suffering, for she had borne
much in early life, and Giovanni needed not to fear for her. He hardly
left her. They so belonged to each other that it was easier to bear
trouble together. Possibly, though he did not know it, he looked to her
in his anxiety quite as much as she looked to him. It would have been
hard to say; for where there is such sympathy, such trust, and such
love, there is also a sort of community of courage and of strength and
of endurance for a joint suffering.
When the news of the decision in Messina came, however, Giovanni
considered the trouble to be at an end. Corona only smiled faintly as
they read the telegram together.
'At liberty on bail,' she said slowly. 'That is not an acquittal. He is
still accused of the murder.'
'Long before the trial we shall have discovered the truth,' answered
Giovanni, confidently.
'Until we do, he is still accused of the murder,' repeated Corona, with
slow insistence.
She had not believed it possible that he could be held for trial. But
the gladness of a near meeting with him stole upon her anxiety.
As soon as the first greetings were over, he went with her to her own
sitting-room, and they remained alone together. For a long time she held
his hands and looked into his eyes, while he spoke to her.
'Do not ask me any questions, mother dear,' he said, smiling at her.
'You know that I did not kill the poor man, and no one believes that I
did. Do not let them torment me with all sorts of questions. If I could
answer them, I should have answered them at once. I cannot.'
Still she did not speak, for Orsino had written and telegraphed every
detail, and had again and again spoken of Ippolito's inexplicable
silence.
'Mother, trust me, and do not ask me questions,' said the young priest,
earnestly.
'Yes,' she said at last. 'I trust you, and I always have. I was not
hesitating, my dear, and I shall never ask you anything about it, nor
allow anyone else to do so, if I can prevent it. But it has dawned on
me--the truth I wanted. I believe I understand.'
A startled look came into Ippolito's eyes, and his hands closed suddenly
upon hers. He opened his lips to speak, but could not find wise words,
for he believed that she had guessed the truth, by some extraordinary
and supernormal process of intuition.
'No,' she said reassuringly, 'do not be afraid. I shall not even tell
you what I think, and I shall certainly not tell anyone else. But--' She
stopped suddenly.
'But what?' he asked, in the utmost anxiety, searching her eyes.
'Nothing that I need say, my dear boy,' she answered quietly. 'It is
better to say nothing about such things when one is not sure. Sit down
beside me, and let us be together as we used to be before all this
happened.'
He sat down, and they remained long together.
There was but one opinion in Rome. Everyone said that Tebaldo Pagliuca
knew more about his brother's death than he chose to tell, and had
managed to cast the burden of evidence against Ippolito. Hundreds of
people called at the Palazzo Saracinesca, and Ippolito had scores of
notes from friends, congratulating him on having regained his liberty.
Old Donna Francesca Campodonico came to see Corona, a saintly, shadowy
woman, who lived alone in a beautiful old palace near the Tiber.
'A Corleone, my dear!' she said. 'What do you expect? We are told to
love our enemies, it is true, but we are at liberty to love them as
enemies, and not as friends. In order to do that it is necessary to
distinguish them, and the more clearly we draw the line, the better.'
'It is refreshing to hear you speak of anyone as an enemy,' answered
Corona, with a smile.
'My dear,' said Donna Francesca, 'I am very human, I assure you. Never
have anything to do with a Corleone or a Braccio. There is very little
to choose between us. We are hereditary sinners!'
She was a Braccio herself, and Corona laughed, though she knew there was
truth in the saying. The Braccio people had many friends, but so far as
the Corleone were concerned, all Rome agreed with Donna Francesca, and
congratulated the Saracinesca, quite regardless of the fact that
Ippolito was not really acquitted.
But Corona was not as she had been before, and her eyes followed
Ippolito about, when he was within sight, with a sort of wondering,
anxious expression that showed how perpetually her thoughts were
occupied with him.