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In the printed text, this chapter opens the Second Part with the internal heading ‘I’, without creating another chapter for the reader; the narrative continues with the consequences of Simão's arrest. Domingos Botelho awoke to the great commotion running through the house. He asked his wife, whom he supposed to be awake in the adjoining room, what all the noise was about. When no one answered, he shook the bell frantically. At the same time, he roared, terrified by the thought that the house might be on fire. When Rita Preciosa came in, her husband was already pulling on his breeches back to front. ‘What is this uproar? Who is shouting?’ Domingos exclaimed. ‘You are the one shouting most,’ Rita replied. When Domingos demanded to know who was crying and the reason in a single word, Rita replied that it was their daughters and announced: ‘Simão has killed a man.’ ‘In Coimbra? And they are making all this noise about it?’ his father asked. Rita explained that the killing had taken place in Viseu. Domingos thought that she was mocking him: the boy was in Coimbra yet killed a man in Viseu. He remarked ironically that the laws of the realm had made no provision for such a case. Rita accused him of joking and revealed that, earlier that morning, Simão had killed Baltasar Coutinho, Tadeu de Albuquerque's nephew. On hearing those names, Domingos's expression changed completely. Rita replied that Simão was at the visiting judge's house; Domingos asked whether he had been arrested, sent at once for the chief bailiff and demanded details of the killing.
Rita asked why he did not dress and go to the judge's house himself. ‘What am I to do there?’ Domingos retorted. ‘Learn from your son how it all happened,’ she replied. Domingos declared that he was not a father but a chief magistrate, and that it was not his duty to question Simão. He wanted to hear no more weeping; his daughters must be quiet or go and cry in the garden. The chief bailiff arrived and reported in detail everything he knew. It had been established that Simão's love for Tadeu's daughter had caused the disaster. Domingos ordered the judge to enforce the law rigorously, threatening to compel him if he failed.
After the bailiff left, Rita asked her husband what he meant by speaking of his own son in that way. Domingos replied that he was chief magistrate of the district and did not protect murderers driven by jealousy. Moreover, the jealousy concerned the daughter of a man he detested. He would rather see Simão dead a thousand times than see him connected to the Albuquerque family. He had repeatedly written that he would cast Simão out if he received proof of that love correspondence. He would not sacrifice his integrity for a disobedient son who was, in addition, a killer. Rita argued for a long time, partly from maternal affection and largely from her habit of contradicting her husband. At last she gave up, overcome by Domingos's anger and unusual obstinacy. She had never seen him so enraged or so harsh in his speech. Domingos told her that, in minor matters, her authority had still been tolerable. In questions of honour, however, that authority had ended: ‘Leave me!’ Hearing this and seeing his expression, Rita felt herself reduced to the condition of a submissive woman and withdrew.
When the visiting judge entered the waiting room, Domingos received him with a forbidding expression. Far from looking like a father ready to express thanks or ask for leniency, Domingos seemed poised to rebuke the judge for a visit suggesting that the scales of justice trembled in his hands. The judge began by offering his condolences for Simão's misfortune. Domingos thanked him curtly, said that he knew everything and asked whether proceedings had already begun. The judge replied that he could not refuse the formal complaint. ‘If you refused it, I would force you to do your duty,’ the chief magistrate declared. The judge explained that Simão's position was very grave because he confessed everything. Simão said that he had killed the tormentor of the woman he loved. ‘He did very well,’ Domingos interrupted with a dry, hoarse laugh. The judge had asked Simão whether he had acted in self-defence and had signalled to him to answer yes. Simão had rejected the suggestion and answered no. Had he merely been defending himself, he had said, he would have used the toe of his boot, not fired a shot. The judge had used every legitimate means to elicit answers suggesting hallucination, madness or diminished responsibility. Simão, however, answered and replied with unwavering calm and presence of mind. On Simão's own account, it was impossible to present the killing as unintended or committed without clear judgement. The judge lamented the exceptionally sad position: he wished to help Simão but could not. Domingos replied that he too could not and would not help him. Domingos asked whether Simão was already in prison; the judge replied that he was still at the judge's house and asked whether he should arrange a decent prison room for him.
Domingos refused to make any decision: Simão was to be treated as though he had no relatives in Viseu. When the judge sadly reminded him that he was a father and, speaking frankly as a friend, condemned his severity, Domingos replied: ‘I am a magistrate.’ The judge argued that the law would punish Simão and that his father should not add hatred of his own: misery softened even strangers' hatred and should soften an affectionate father's hurt still more. Domingos denied hatred, disowned the man in question and, as chief magistrate, ordered the judge to do his duty; as a friend, he added, he would later thank him for the kindness of the visit.
On leaving, the judge found Simão as calm as before and warned him that Domingos was angrier than could reasonably have been expected and that, for the present, he could expect neither influence nor support from his father. ‘What does that matter?’ Simão replied calmly. The judge insisted that it mattered greatly: if Domingos wished, there would later be ways to soften the sentence. ‘What do I care about the sentence?’ the chief magistrate's son replied. Astonished, the judge asked whether going to the gallows was also a matter of indifference to him. ‘It is a matter of indifference to me, sir,’ Simão replied. He added that his heart remained indifferent to the fate of his head. The judge warned him that his father would not even provide for his first necessities in prison. Simão had not known this, but asked what difference it made. ‘What does it matter whether I die of hunger or on the scaffold?’ he asked. The judge advised him to write to his mother. Simão interrupted to ask what he was supposed to request from her. He should ask her to soften Domingos's anger; otherwise, no one would provide him with food. Simão accused the judge of taking him for a wretch concerned about where he would eat that day. Such petty matters of the stomach, he said, did not belong to the judge's duties. Irritated, the judge told Simão to do as he pleased. He then called the chief bailiff and handed the accused man over to him. He told the officer that there was no need to request an armed guard to escort Simão to prison.
The gaoler received Simão respectfully and lodged him in one of the best rooms in the prison, although it too was bare and unfurnished. Seated on a wooden chair borrowed from another prisoner, Simão folded his arms and meditated. Soon afterwards, one of Domingos's servants brought him Rita's secret lunch and a letter from her; Simão left the basket on the floor and began to read before eating. ‘Unhappy boy, you are lost!’ Rita began. She could not help him because his father remained implacable. She was sending him lunch without Domingos's knowledge and did not know whether she could send him dinner. She lamented her son's fate and wished that he had died at birth. She had been told that he was stillborn, but his fatal destiny had refused to release its victim. She asked why he had left Coimbra and what had brought him there to meet such misfortune. Only then had she learnt that Simão had been away from Coimbra for fifteen days without sending his mother a word. Simão stopped reading, perplexed. If Rita knew nothing, then she had not sent for João da Cruz. Nor could she have been the person who sent him the money. The servant warned him that his lunch was growing cold. Without hearing him, Simão continued with the letter.
Rita supposed that her son was without money. Unfortunately, that day she could not send him even a pinto, a gold coin. Ever since he had fled to Spain, Manoel had been consuming all their mother's savings. After some time, she would see what she could still do for Simão. She feared, however, that Domingos would leave Viseu and take the family to Vila Real. In that way, he would leave his son's trial entirely to the severity of the law. Rita asked where Simão had been hiding during those fifteen days. Only that day had his father received word from a lecturer about his absence from classes. The muleteer who had accompanied Simão had said that he had left for Porto. Rita could write no more. Domingos had beaten young Rita because she wished to go to the prison. Simão could rely only on his mother's limited influence over an enraged father. After several minutes, Simão concluded that the money had come from João da Cruz, unaware that the savings were Mariana's and that João had used the false maternal story to make him accept them. He emerged from his thoughts with tears in his eyes; the servant consoled him, saying that hardships were for men and God would make everything turn out for the best, and urged him to eat his lunch.
‘Take the lunch away,’ Simão ordered, confirming to the astonished servant that he would not eat. He forbade him to return and sent this message to Rita: ‘I have no family and want nothing from my parents' house; I am calm, well lodged, happy and proud of my fate.’ He dismissed him at once. On leaving, the servant told the gaoler that his master was mad, a suspicion Rita considered plausible when she heard her son's words.
When the gaoler brought in the young countrywoman Mariana, she, who had never even shaken her guest's hand, ran to him with open arms and her face bathed in tears. The gaoler withdrew, thinking that this young woman was far prettier than the noble lady. Simão asked her not to cry: if anyone should do so, it was he, with tears of gratitude for every kindness shown by Mariana and her father. On learning that his mother had never sent him money, Simão believed that the sum had come from João; Mariana hid her tearful face in her apron without revealing that the savings were hers. In a low voice, Simão asked whether João had been in danger; Mariana replied that he was safe at home, furious and eager to come to the prison, but that she had stopped him, and confirmed that no one had pursued him after the escape. Simão asked her to hurry and reassure her father, telling him not to be alarmed.
Mariana replied that she would not leave before carrying out João's instruction; she would go and return shortly afterwards. Simão gave her money and asked for a table, a chair, an inkwell and paper. Mariana promised to bring everything at once and explained that she would already have bought it all, but João had told her to wait and see whether the family supplied what was needed. When Simão repeated that he had no family and pressed the money on her, Mariana refused it without her father's permission: she had brought more than enough funds for the purchases. Mariana asked about the wound; smiling, Simão admitted that only then had he remembered it and, since it no longer hurt, believed it to be healing well. When Simão asked about Teresa, Mariana said that she had learnt Teresa was on her way to Porto. People said that Tadeu had ordered her to be placed unconscious in the litter and that a crowd surrounded the nobleman's house. ‘No unfortunate person is left without support,’ Simão declared, asking Mariana to care for her guest and be his angel of mercy. Tears returned to Mariana's eyes and, between sobs, she urged him to be patient, promised that he would not die abandoned and said: ‘Imagine that a sister has appeared in your life today.’ From her large pockets, she took biscuits and cinnamon liqueur, placed them on the borrowed chair and called them a poor lunch, for she had found nothing else ready. She then hurried out, as though wishing to spare the unhappy man from having to thank her.