Only one torch burned for her; old Andreino, the fisherman, bore it. It burnt steadily in the hot, heavy night. Musa and the white dog stood by the grave. She moved as if she were walking in her sleep, and never a sound came from her lips; the dog hung his head, but was quiet, pressing close to her side. Once he threw his muzzle in the air and howled. It was when the first shovelful of sand and clay fell on the dead body.
The priest spoke some commonplace words of consolation and of hope; he was a simple, honest man, the son of seafaring people, and born fifty years earlier in Santa Tarsilla. Musa did not hear what he spoke.
She went home in unbroken silence; the night was oppressive, the sea was still, the heavens were covered with mist. There was one more grave on the low sandy shore; that was all.
She went home to the house, and barred herself in, and threw herself on the bed where Joconda had died. No one had the heart to disturb her that night.
'Let her sleep if she can,' said the priest and old Andreino. But for them the women
