The doctor examined Guiliano and dressed the wound. The bullet had gone through the belly and probably torn up some vital organs, certainly hit the liver. A great deal of blood had been lost, the young lad had a ghostly pallor, the skin all over his body was bluish white. Around the mouth was that circle of white the doctor knew so well as one of the first signals of death.

He sighed and said to the Abbot, "I've done all I can. The bleeding has stopped, but he's already lost more than a third of his blood, and that's usually fatal. Keep him warm, feed him a little milk and I'll leave you some morphine." He looked down at Guiliano's powerful body with regret.

Pisciotta whispered, "What can I tell his father and mother? Is there a chance for him?"

The doctor sighed. "Tell them what you like. But the wound is mortal. He's a strong-looking lad so he may live a few days more, but it's wise not to hope." He saw the look of despair in Pisciotta's eyes and the fleeting look of relief on the Abbot's face and said with ironic humor, "Of course in this holy place there could always be a miracle."

The Abbot and the doctor went out. Pisciotta leaned over his friend to wipe the sweat from his brow and was astonished that in Guiliano's eyes was a hint of mockery. The eyes were dark brown but edged with a circle of silver. Pisciotta leaned closer. Turi Guiliano was whispering; it was a struggle for him to speak.

"Tell my mother I will come home," Turi said. And then he did something Pisciotta would never forget in the years to follow. His hands came up suddenly and grabbed Pisciotta by the hair of his head. The hands were powerful; they could never be the hands of a dying man. They yanked Pisciotta's head down close. "Obey me," Guiliano said.

The morning after Guiliano's parents called him, Hector Adonis arrived in Montelepre. He rarely used his house in Montelepre. He hated the place of his birth and his young manhood. He especially avoided the Festa. The decorations always distressed him, their brightness seemed to him some evil disguise for the poverty of the town. And he had always endured humiliations during the Festa – drunken men jeering at his short stature, women giving him amused contemptuous smiles.

It did not help that he knew so much more than they did. They were so proud, for instance, that every family painted its house the same color their fathers had. They didn't know that the color of the houses gave away their origins, the blood they had inherited from their ancestors along with their houses. That centuries ago the Normans had painted their houses white, the Greeks always used blue, the Arabs various pinks and red. And the Jews used yellow. Now they all considered themselves Italian and Sicilian. The blood had become so intermingled in a thousand years that you could not identify the owner of a house by his features, and if you told the owner of a yellow house that he had Jewish ancestors you could get a knife in your belly.

Aspanu Pisciotta lived in a white house though he looked more like an Arab. The Guilianos' was predominantly Grecian blue, and Turi Guiliano's face was truly Greek, though he had the body of the lusty large-boned Normans. But apparently all that blood had boiled together into something strange and dangerous to make the true Sicilian, and that was what had brought Adonis to Montelepre today.

The Via Bella was straddled at each corner by a pair of carabinieri, grim faced, holding rifles and machine pistols at the ready. The second day of the Festa was beginning but this part of town was curiously deserted and there were no children on the street. Hector Adonis parked his car in front of the Guiliano house, up on the strip of sidewalk. A pair of carabinieri watched him suspiciously until he got out of the car, then smiled with amusement at his short stature.

It was Pisciotta who opened the door and led him inside. Guiliano's mother and father were in the kitchen waiting, a breakfast of cold sausage, bread and coffee on the table. Maria Lombardo was calm, reassured by her beloved Aspanu that her son would recover. She was more angry than fearful. Guiliano's father looked more proud than sad. His son had proved himself a man; he was alive and his enemy was dead.

Again Pisciotta told his story, this time with comforting humor. He made light of Guiliano's wound and very little of his own heroism in carrying Guiliano down to the monastery. But Hector Adonis knew that helping an injured man over three miles of rough terrain must have been grueling for the slightly built Pisciotta. Also, he thought Pisciotta skipped over the description of the wound too glibly. Adonis feared the worst.

"How did the carabinieri know enough to come here?" he asked. Pisciotta told him about Guiliano giving up his identity card.

Guiliano's mother broke out in lamentation. "Why didn't Turi let them have the cheese? Why did he fight?"

Guiliano's father said harshly to his wife, "What would you have him do? Inform on that poor farmer? He would have disgraced the family name forever."

Hector Adonis was struck by the contradiction in these remarks. He knew the mother was much stronger and more fiery than the father. Yet the mother had uttered the words of resignation, the father the words of defiance. And Pisciotta, this boy Aspanu – who would have thought he would be so brave, to rescue his comrade and bring him to safety? And now lying so coolly to the parents about the hurt their son had suffered.

Guiliano's father said, "If only he had not given up his identity card. Our friends would have sworn he was in the streets here."

Guiliano's mother said, "They would have arrested him anyway." She began to weep. "Now he will have to live in the mountains."

Hector Adonis said, "We must make certain the Abbot does not deliver him to the police."

Pisciotta said impatiently, "He will not dare. He knows I'll hang him in his cassock."

Adonis gave Pisciotta a long look. There was a deadly menace in this young boy. It was not intelligent to damage the ego of a young man, Adonis thought. The police never understood that you can, with some impunity, insult an older man who has already been humiliated by life itself and will not take to heart the small slights of another human being. But a young man thinks these offenses mortal.

They were looking for help to Hector Adonis, who had helped their son in the past. Hector said, "If the police learn his whereabouts, the Abbot will have no choice. He is not above suspicion himself in certain matters. I think it best, with your permission, to ask my friend, Don Croce Malo, to intercede with the Abbot."

They were surprised that he knew the great Don, except for Pisciotta, who gave him a knowing smile. Adonis said to him sharply, "And what are you doing here? You'll be recognized and arrested. They have your description."

Pisciotta said contemptuously, "The two guards were scared shitless. They wouldn't recognize their mothers. And I have a dozen witnesses who will swear I was in Montelepre yesterday."

Hector Adonis adopted his most imposing professional manner. He said to the parents, "You must not attempt to visit your son or tell anyone, even your dearest friends, where he is. The police have informers and spies everywhere. Aspanu will visit Turi at night. As soon as he can move I'll make arrangements for him to live in another town until this all quiets down. Then, with some money, things can be arranged, and Turi can come home. Don't worry about him, Maria, guard your health. And you, Aspanu, keep me informed."

He embraced the mother and father. Maria Lombardo was still weeping when he left.

He had many things to do – most importantly to get word to Don Croce and make sure that Turi's sanctuary remained safe. Thank God the government in Rome did not offer rewards for information on the murder of a policeman, or the Abbot would have sold Turi as quickly as he sold one of his holy relics.