come out of her and rise far above her ken and hover in the air like a bird, and then the people would hold their breath to listen and mutter to one another, 'there must be a saint that thinks about her after all.'
For herself, she did not want any saint. The religion of Santa Tarsilla went past her; it never reached her, still less did it ever enter into her. They had taught her the usual formula, and she had had the priestly benison on her dusky head like other children; but it all went by her as the wind did; it never took hold upon her. 'And yet Saturnino was a true believer,' said the good Priore of Santa Tarsilla, to whom alone Joconda had told the truth. Yes, the murderer and robber had believed devoutly, and had been a true Christian, so far as faith and fear could make him so, but this child was a heathen.
'I do not care for them;' that was all she answered to the priest when he strove to make her love Christ and the saints.
She cared more for a fish with jewel-like eyes, when she could steal it away from the overflowing net, and let it glide back into the sea, and watch its fins stir, and its languid life quicken, till with a rush and a dash it vanished
