He spent so many vigils similar to this that the self-sacrifice
entailed in them never struck either him or those he served.

When the great heat had passed he set the door wide open; the sun was
setting; a flood of light inundated the plain from the near mountains
on the west, where the Leonessa towered, to those shadowy green
clouds which far away in the east were the marshes before the sea.
Through the ruddy glory of the evening the family returned, dark
figures against the gold; brown women, half-nude men, footsore
children, their steps dragging reluctantly homeward.

At the sight of the priest on the threshold they stopped and made
obeisance humbly in reverent salutation.

"Is he dead, most reverend?" said the eldest of the brood, a man of
sixty, touching the ground with his forehead.

"Your father is dead," said Don Silverio.

The people were still; relieved to hear that all was over, yet
vaguely terrified, rather by his gaze than by his words. A woman wept
aloud out of fear.

"We could net let the good grain spoil," said the eldest man, with
some shame in his voice.

"Pray that your sons may deal otherwise with you when your turn shall
come," said Don Silverio; and then he went through them, unmoved by
their prayers and cries, and passed across the rough grass-land out
of sight.