VII + 

I + 

Sisto continued trying to be friendly because of Gian-Luca’s wife. Lidia was friendly because of Gian-Luca; she liked Maddalena’s tall, quiet husband; but even Lidia was not at ease with him, he struck her⁠—indeed, he seemed to strike them all⁠—as being a “forestiere.” + 

The Englishman’s home may well be his castle, but the home of the Latin is his fortress, and seldom may the stranger hope to penetrate beyond its outermost portal. Thus Gian-Luca, while sharing their family life, had a sense of being always just outside; they were never completely natural with him, he suspected a number of subtle reserves, and this made him stiff and shy in his turn, shy of asserting his claim. + 

Moreover, he resented their superior air, their complacent conviction that every alien was either a madman or a fool; he had met such convictions before, it was true, but in Old Compton Street they had not affected him, whereas here they appeared to affect him directly, and the injustice of this made him restive. Then these people differed very much from the clan in one all-important respect; these people had no need to assert themselves, they were in their own country and could afford to be generous, they were not compelled to keep memories green in the constant fear of absorption. What had been excusable in Nerone and the others⁠—a kind of virtue in a way⁠—was irritating in Lidia and Sisto, and more irritating still in Leone. And then there was the question of veracity; poor Mario was not strictly truthful, of course; he must always say, for instance, that the little round tins were entirely unknown at the Capo; as for Nerone, he would swear by his gods that his Macedonias were fresher than fresh, and this in spite of the fact that the tobacco poured out of their ends like dry chaff. Oh, undoubtedly lies were told by the clan, and the clan was grasping over money; but its lies were pure white in comparison to Sisto’s, and if its members loved money they worked hard to get it, whereas Sisto was both grasping and lazy. + 

Sisto was quite a new type to Gian-Luca, a man devoid of any ideal as far as his work was concerned. The ambition of the exiles was completely lacking in him; he cared not at all how he ran the estate, provided that he ran it to his personal advantage with as little trouble as might be. His pride of office never went beyond words, and even in words it could not be maintained, for at one moment he would brag of the trust imposed in him, and the next he would wink a large eye at Gian-Luca, explaining at great length and with many a chuckle some underhand piece of sharp dealing. Nothing was too mean or too puerile for Sisto, so long as it brought him gain. + 

“Ma guarda,” he would laugh, “a man has to live! What do you say, Gian-Luca?” And Gian-Luca, finding nothing appropriate to say, would observe that Sisto looked offended. + 

Very unwilling indeed was Gian-Luca to become the confidant of Sisto, but Sisto could never resist for long the pleasure of expounding his cunning. Yet after having poured out these revelations, he would usually assume the grand air, becoming very pompous and rather distant; then Lidia and Leone would also become distant, and Gian-Luca would be given to understand once again that he was only a stranger. He realized more and more every day how little he had in common with these people, how little they had in common with him, and this realization came as a shock; he had journeyed a very long way to discover that a man could feel foreign to his country. + 

Maddalena, who saw what was happening, grew anxious: “They are still rather shy, give them time,” she would plead, and then she would add: “But you are so much better, therefore what does anything matter!” + 

And this was quite true, he was certainly better, beginning to feel almost strong. But he would think: “It is queer, I am always a stranger⁠—I felt like a stranger among the English, and out here I feel even more like a stranger⁠—” And then he would try not to mind very much, because he had been warned against worry. + 

Yet all the same, he must say to Maddalena: “I have come home too late, donna mia⁠—a man may come home too late to his country⁠—” + 

And she, in her turn, could find nothing to reply; she could only gaze at him sadly. + 

II + 

The gulf had widened when Gian-Luca’s new cousins discovered that he never went to church. Sisto and his household were excessively pious, and their chagrin was great when they found that their guest refused to accompany them to Mass. Sisto had so many sins to confess that he needed the Church very badly; indeed, he used it as a spiritual lifebuoy to keep his soul from total immersion. Lidia, who had very few conscious sins, had a great many superstitions⁠—so many, in fact, that her life was a torment⁠—and these she must deluge with much Holy Water, in order, conversely, to submerge them. As for Leone, he was made to serve Mass⁠—every Sunday morning he must serve it. His thoughts on the subject were not inquired into, but he had so few thoughts about anything at all that this was of small importance. What was of importance, and very grave importance, was Gian-Luca’s unorthodox behavior; he claimed to be Italian, yet refused to go to Mass. Very well, then he must be a secret Freemason, or if he was not a Freemason he was worse, he belonged to the Socialisti, and this for Sisto, who served a Marchese, was a matter of no small moment. + 

“But is he not even baptized?” inquired Lidia. + 

“He has been baptized⁠—” Maddalena admitted. + 

“That makes it far worse,” announced Sisto firmly, “the insult to our faith is the greater.” + 

And all this made Maddalena unhappy; unhappy and a little ashamed, so that she said to Gian-Luca one Sunday: “They cannot understand why you never go to Mass.” And he knew from her voice that she felt ashamed, and then he too felt unhappy. + 

Sisto, returning newly shriven from confession, would often look askance at Gian-Luca, for at such times he suffered from much pride of spirit; then Leone would quickly emulate his father, and he too would try to look prim and disapproving, while Gian-Luca, considerably better now in health, would be longing to kick them both. A nice frame of mind, indeed, for a man who had just been restored to his people. + 

Maddalena, however, felt at home with her cousins, for hers was not an analytical mind. She accepted their faults as things familiar; she had seen them all before, and while she deplored them, she could not find it in her to be overcritical. Moreover, she was growing very fond of Lidia; it was pleasant to have another woman to talk to, and the everyday duties of the household were pleasant, performed as they were in bright sunshine. Maddalena loved also to talk to the peasants, because then she could play with their babies. She enjoyed the red wine and the rich peasant cooking, but above all the blue sky and glorious weather⁠—she expanded, growing younger and less careworn every day, a fact not lost on Gian-Luca. For Maddalena’s sake he endured her cousins⁠—the last thing he wanted in the world was a quarrel⁠—he had promised to remain at the farm for four months, and Sisto’s disapproval of his lack of religion had not been extended to his money. So Gian-Luca took to being much alone and would wander for hours in the mountains. His muscles grew firm and his cheeks less sunken, while the sun tanned his skin and nourished his body. As for food, he need eat only simple things⁠—bread and cheese and much fruit, with occasional pasta, when Lidia had not drenched it in butter. + 

Yes, his body responded readily enough, for his body was young and strong; but his soul still doomed his eyes to their seeing, and now they must see yet a new cause for pity⁠—on all sides they must see it, wherever man dwelt and compelled the dumb beasts to serve him. Never before had Gian-Luca realized the helplessness of those who cannot speak, for the English, on the whole, are too just to be cruel⁠—a quiet, unemotional people, it is true, but possessed of a great sense of fairness. And Gian-Luca decided that by living among them, this sense of fairness was unconsciously acquired, for he could not conceive of any member of the clan doing what these peasants did. Rocca had hung his small goats upside-down, but at least his goats had been dead, whereas here they were carried bleating to slaughter with their legs tied together over a pole, and their heads all but bumping against the pathway⁠—a brutal, unnecessary torment. Nerone kept his birds in small cages it was true, and believed that his skylarks were happy; but at least he gave them clean food and fresh water, and their cages were as palaces compared to those that Gian-Luca now saw in the paese. Horrible, punishing, heartbreak cages, filthy with excrement and slime; their water green and stinking from neglect, their one narrow perch encrusted with droppings, their inmates disheveled and bare in places from the constant rubbing of the bars. + 

Wherever he went he saw the same thing, an absolute disregard of dumb creatures, a curious lack of human understanding, of the realization of pain. But more than anywhere else, perhaps, he saw it on Lidia’s farm; for Lidia was a pleasant and kindly woman, and yet she had taken Leone to help her, and Leone did not lack understanding of pain⁠—on the contrary he liked to inflict it. The farm consisted principally of chickens, and these Leone could crowd into crates, or better still, he could wring their necks slowly, taking a long time about it. He could pluck out their feathers before they were dead, or swing them about by their claws⁠—there was no end to what he could do to the chickens, and no end it seemed to Lidia’s indifference; that was what so amazed Gian-Luca. + 

In addition to the chickens, there was one doleful cow, a half-grown calf, and a few lousy sheep; these lived all together in a species of damp cavern, hollowed out of the rock near the farm. A slatted oak door had been fixed at the entrance, admitting a modicum of light and air; but the beasts very seldom got a glimpse of the sky, and practically never of the grass, it appeared, for as Lidia explained to Gian-Luca one morning: “If our cow saw the grass, she would be so delighted that she might well forget to give milk!” The cavern reeked of filth and ammonia, causing the beasts’ eyes to stream; when they came into the light they must half-close their eyes⁠—especially the calf, who was young and unaccustomed, and who suffered from conjunctivitis. Gian-Luca would lie in bed sick with pity for the patient, enduring creatures. + 

“Can you not sleep?” Maddalena would ask him. + 

And then he must tell her about the cattle. + 

“I know, I know⁠—” she would answer, sighing, “but thank God, they do not suffer as we do!” + 

Gian-Luca would sit up and stare into the darkness. “How do you know?” he would ask her. + 

And one night she answered quite naturally and simply: “Perché non sono Cristiana.” + 

Then Gian-Luca felt that his wife was slipping back in mind and in spirit to her people; that her country was luring her, drawing her away, since she, who was all tender mercy and compassion, could repeat this crude blasphemy of the peasants. + 

“Inasmuch as your Christ had pity,” he cried hotly, “so must every poor beast be Christian!” + 

But Maddalena hid her face on his shoulder. “No, no, Gian-Luca!” she protested. “God is good, He would not allow them to suffer⁠—I have asked the Parroco, and he says the same; the beasts do not suffer as we do.” + 

Gian-Luca sighed, and taking her hand, he tried to explain more gently: “The priest is a peasant himself,” he told her; “and he thinks and speaks very much as they do⁠—but listen, mia donna: the dumb things do suffer, if you look you will see it in their eyes.” He could not go to sleep, and she had perforce to listen while he pleaded the cause of the dumb: “They cannot tell us,” he kept on repeating; “they can only trust us, Maddalena.” + 

And now Maddalena was almost weeping, yet he knew that she was only half convinced. + 

“God is good, God has always been good!” she pleaded. + 

“He is merciful, then,” said Gian-Luca. + 

III + 

The creature Leone loved best to torment was a little Sardinian donkey; in size it was not much bigger than a dog, and its hoofs were easily avoided. A favorite pastime was twisting its tongue, and one day he kicked it in the stomach⁠—just by way of letting it know that he was there⁠—and the donkey stood still and shivered. But Leone was as cruel as death to all beasts, and all beasts knew it and feared him, and he it was who helped on the farm⁠—yet Lidia was a kindly woman⁠ ⁠… Gian-Luca’s eyes sometimes blazed fury at Leone; Leone would see this and snigger. + 

“Non sono Cristiani!” he was always saying, because this tormented Gian-Luca. + 

And Gian-Luca would have to walk away quickly in case he should be tempted to strike, for he too was a Latin, in spite of his pity, in spite of his newfound seeing. But where could he turn to be rid of this seeing? There were days when he knew despair: “A country as lovely as Paradise and as cruel as Hell!” he would mutter. + 

Under the very window of his bedroom hung Marchese Sabelli’s richiami⁠—ortolans used to decoy their fellows⁠—there were eight of them, each in a tiny cage not much more than six inches long. They were fairly large birds, so that only with an effort could they stand half upright or turn round; and their calling would wake Gian-Luca every morning: “Dio!” he would think, “those miserable creatures!” And perhaps he would bury his head in the bedclothes so as to shut away their calling. + 

At last he spoke to Lidia about them. “I will buy you much larger cages,” he told her. + 

But she answered: “They are wild, the wildest of all birds⁠—in a larger cage they would beat themselves to pieces, one must always keep ortolans in a small cage. These belong to our padrone the Marchese.” + 

Then Gian-Luca lifted up his voice in protest, and his protest was far from polite. He said: “May your damned Marchese go to hell, and may he be kept there in a cage as small for him as these cages are for his poor tormented birds, and may he remain there forever and ever; I hope he will never get out!” After which, Cousin Lidia was naturally offended, and she went and complained to Maddalena. + 

One morning Gian-Luca could bear it no longer; he stole out of bed at dawn, and his long arm shot out to each cage in turn, and he opened their doors, and the birds flew away, too astonished to thank Gian-Luca. + 

Oh, what a hubbub when a couple of hours later Sisto saw all those empty cages! His oaths far exceeded Rocca’s at their best, he attacked the Madonna from every point of view, nor did he omit to mention the Mass, which he lingered over in great detail. + 

“Who has committed this outrage?” yelled Sisto. “They are gone! The Marchese’s richiami!” His voice sounded almost tearful with rage, he was literally dancing with passion. + 

Gian-Luca unfastened the window and looked down. “Of course they have gone,” he said, smiling serenely; “of course they have gone; I opened their cages⁠—the birds were not fools, you can tell your Marchese!” + 

“You⁠—you⁠—?” stammered Sisto. “Che vergogna! What an outrage! They were specially trained richiami⁠—you are mad, mad, mad⁠—you behave like a madman⁠—” + 

“I like being mad,” said Gian-Luca, quite gravely, after which he closed the window. + 

Maddalena had risen from her bed and was staring at her husband in horror: “What have you done, Gian-Luca!” she exclaimed. “They were trained richiami. The Marchese will be furious, he will surely punish our miserable Sisto⁠—he will surely make Sisto pay for the birds!” + 

“I hope so, indeed,” said Gian-Luca. + 

Then Maddalena’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, but what shall I say?” she demanded. + 

“Tell them that your husband is mad but harmless.” And Gian-Luca laughed softly, thinking of the birds away by now in the mountains. + 

What his wife really said Gian-Luca never knew, but nothing could have made any difference, for Sisto and Lidia were firmly convinced that they harbored a lunatic. When Gian-Luca went down to breakfast that morning, they eyed him timidly a moment without speaking; then Lidia inquired if he would not prefer to have his breakfast upstairs. He thanked her, but said that he would go for a walk in order to ease his poor head; his head had been paining him lately, he told her, and at that she glanced quickly across at Sisto, and Sisto looked at Maddalena. But Gian-Luca’s enjoyment was somewhat damped when he saw Maddalena’s face; it was red with shame and embarrassment. + 

“It is all right,” he whispered, “I will pay them for the birds.” But his wife turned suddenly away. + 

IV + 

The weeks passed, and still they stayed on at the farm; Maddalena was loath to go, for Gian-Luca seemed almost well again, cured by the fine air and sunshine. Her cousins quite openly said that he was mad, but because of his affliction they forgave his behavior. + 

“If he is not mad, then he is English,” declared Sisto, “and, that after all, is very much the same thing!” + 

His solitary habits lent color to the rumor that Gian-Luca was one of God’s afflicted; he would wander all over the countryside, never speaking to the peasants, unless it were to urge them to show some mercy to their beasts. Those days spent out in the open air had given new life to his body; but his compassionate mind was weary unto death, and his heart was filled with a great loneliness, and his soul had begun to long intolerably for something⁠—only, he could not tell for what. He would look into the eyes of the saddle-galled mules, and the stumbling, ill-cared for horses; for he felt that they held a message, those eyes, and he tried very hard to understand that message, talking to the dumb things gently. But one day he must look into the eyes of cattle that were being driven to slaughter. + 

He had wandered a very long way from the farm and was climbing a steep salita; and there at the summit of the pathway stood a cross, and the Christ on the cross looked straight down the pathway. Then over the sharp, loose stones came stumbling those terrified driven cattle: their eyes were filled with a knowledge of disaster, for their sensitive nostrils had scented death from the slaughterhouse halfway up the hill. Long festoons of slime were swinging from their lips, and they tried to turn back into safety; then their drover struck them on their anxious faces, and on their bowed heads and their quivering flanks; and he cursed them, while the blows fell heavy in his fury, so that they had to go forward. + 

On they must stumble to Calvary as Another had stumbled before them; poor, lowly, uncomprehending disciples, following dumbly in the footsteps of God who had surely created all things for joy, yet had died for the blindness of the world. And because the sky was so radiantly blue His cross stood out darkly defined. Looking up, the drover suddenly perceived it, and he signed his breast with the emblem of compassion; then he struck yet again at his bullocks. But Gian-Luca saw neither the cross nor the sky, he saw only a creature’s eyes⁠—for he thought that a poor beast looked at him in passing, seeming to accuse him as he stood there helpless, so that he too bowed his head. + 

Nor was this all that he must witness that day, for going home in the evening he heard a bird singing at the door of the cobbler in the village, near Sisto’s farm. He had never heard such singing before, it was indescribably lovely, and behind the song was a spirit of hope so poignant that it seemed to be racking the bird’s body. The bird was singing in an agony of hope that came very near to despair. + 

The cobbler nodded and smiled at Gian-Luca: “Buona sera,” he said politely, “you admire him? He is new⁠—he has a fine song.” + 

“A marvelous song!” said Gian-Luca. And then he must make his eternal request: “Let me buy him a larger cage.” + 

But the cobbler shook his head: “If you did, signore, he would not find his food, he is blind.” + 

“Blind?” said Gian-Luca, incredulously. + 

“Si, signore, that is why he sings so finely; we often blind them to make them sing, it seems to give sweetness to their notes.” + 

His voice was neither pitiful nor cruel, only lacking in understanding; he chirruped to the blind bird as though he liked it, and going into the house he fetched some lettuce, which he pushed between the bars of its cage. The bird felt the cool, green stuff against its wing, and burst into a torrent of song; as it sang it shuffled its claws on its perch, swaying from side to side. Then Gian-Luca put his hands up to his ears and started to run down the street, and as he ran he remembered the beggar and her child who had lost his eyes. The child and the bird seemed to merge together, no longer two separate creatures; the suffering of the one was the suffering of the other, and the suffering of both was the suffering of Gian-Luca. And although he had covered his ears with his hands, he thought that he could still hear that singing. + 

V + 

It was February when the crisis was reached; they were nearing the end of their stay, and Gian-Luca’s resentment towards Leone had got well-nigh beyond his control. As for the boy, he hated Gian-Luca and went out of his way to enrage him; the weapon he used was the little brown donkey, who must suffer accordingly. Yet as sometimes happens, a very small incident led to the final explosion; Gian-Luca came on Leone one morning thoughtfully tweaking out the donkey’s mane⁠—a painful proceeding, but as heavenly balm when compared with the other torments. For one long minute Gian-Luca stood quite still while Leone looked up and grinned: + 

“Sai che non sentono niente⁠—” he began. Then he stopped abruptly, for Gian-Luca had swooped forward and seized the discarded whip. + 

It was all so sudden that Leone knew nothing until he was swung off his feet and the whip was crashing down on his shoulders; over and over again it crashed down and, with every fresh blow Gian-Luca recited the woes of the little donkey. + 

“Take that for twitching out his mane!” he shouted; “and that for twisting his tongue; and that for prodding the sore on his shoulder; and that for the kick you gave him in the stomach; and that for keeping him all day without water; and that for working him when he was lame. Take that! and that! and that, you young swine! And now you know what it feels like!” + 

But Leone was yelling as though half-demented, and fighting to get away. The sound of his yells and Gian-Luca’s shouting brought Lidia running with Maddalena, and when Lidia saw the plight of her last-born, she too must start yelling as though she would go mad, and even Maddalena had to lift up her voice: “Gian-Luca! Gian-Luca! Santa Madonna, what are you doing, Gian-Luca?” Lidia was tearing at Gian-Luca’s arm, which was taut and as hard as steel, then she started to thump with inadequate fists, and finally buried her small teeth in the hand that was gripping Leone’s collar. For this comely-faced woman was like something possessed in her fierce defense of her offspring; a primitive thing, a tigress at bay, driven crazy by the howls of her cub. And now Maddalena was reaching for the whip, and she got in the way of the blows; Gian-Luca must either strike her or stop beating, so he had to release Leone. + 

“Oh, oh! Oh, oh! Oh, oh!” wailed Leone as he dropped in a blubbering heap. + 

“Well, I am glad that you know what it feels like,” said Gian-Luca; and he turned on his heel and left them. + 

Lidia knelt down by her cowering son and gathered him into her arms, then her eyes blazed up at the silent Maddalena. “The pig! the devil! the madman!” shrieked Lidia. “To beat my Leone because of a donkey!” And many other things she said in her wrath that are not, as a rule, recorded. When Leone had stopped sobbing and had got to his feet, Lidia pointed to the gates: “Take that madman out of my house!” she babbled. “Go quickly before Sisto comes home to kill him⁠—the outrage, the scandal, to lay hands on our son because of a miserable donkey!” + 

What could the poor Maddalena answer? It was true that Leone had been thoroughly thrashed, it was also true that the cause of the thrashing had been a Sardinian donkey. And who should know better than Maddalena the pride of the Latins in their children? Gian-Luca’s sin could never be forgiven⁠—he had sinned against the deep-rooted, primitive instinct of personal reproduction. + 

“My husband and I will go⁠—” she faltered, then her loyalty suddenly came to her aid. “But,” said Maddalena, “we are not afraid of Sisto or of anyone else on earth!” And now she was full of her old, quiet courage, and she looked very straight at her cousin: “Before I go, Lidia, I will tell you what I think: if my husband speaks truly and the beasts feel as we do, then your son is more cruel than the devil himself, and Gian-Luca was right to defend the small donkey who cannot complain when he suffers.” + 

She turned and went slowly into the house, regardless of Lidia’s abuse. In their bedroom she found a placid Gian-Luca⁠—he was quietly packing their clothes. + 

He looked up with a smile: “We will go, Maddalena, but I wish we could take the little donkey!” + 

“We cannot do that,” she told him gravely, “but I am glad that you beat Leone.” + 

When they came downstairs half an hour later, dragging their trunks behind them, there was Cousin Sisto waiting in the hall⁠—presumably to kill Gian-Luca. But Cousin Sisto was not very large and moreover he dreaded a scandal; the whole village was talking already, it seemed, for a passing peasant had heard the uproar: the news had reached Levanto no doubt by now, to say nothing of the Villa Sabelli. The Marchese was coming home the next day, and he was almost as queer as Gian-Luca, he protested quite freely⁠—when he was not too lazy⁠—about horses and mules and all sorts of creatures; he had even forbidden the caging of richiami, which Sisto had caged all the same. No, Sisto was not particularly anxious for his master to visit the farm⁠—he was merry and he loved pretty women, the Marchese; but once he had stopped to talk to the donkey, and had pointed out the sore on its shoulder, speaking quite sharply to Sisto. So Sisto forbore to slay Gian-Luca, and merely puffed out his cheeks. + 

“Go!” he said haughtily. “You have outraged my house; you reward hospitality by beating my son. I give you all, all that my poor house can offer, you take it and then beat my son!” + 

But at that Maddalena became purely a peasant, and a peasant’s memory is long. “And very well we have paid you,” she told him. Then she checked off their numerous payments on her fingers, and, declaimed with much fervor as Maddalena declaimed them, they sounded extremely impressive. + 

Sisto had ordered a fly from Levanto, anxious to be rid of his boarders, so Gian-Luca got the driver to help him with the luggage; then he and Maddalena were driven to the station, where they waited for the Genoa train. + 

VI + 

Maddalena was very silent on the journey, and Gian-Luca knew that she grieved, so he too was silent, for how could he console her for this unhappy ending to their visit? + 

When they came near the frontier at Modane the next day Gian-Luca looked at his wife; Maddalena was gazing out of the window and he saw that the tears were rolling down her cheeks⁠—she, who so seldom wept. Then he took her hand and stroked it with his fingers, while the other passengers pretended to read⁠—they were all English people who were fond of Italians, and they thought this a quarrel between lovers. + 

Gian-Luca said gently: “Listen, donna mia, I know that this thing had to be⁠—I came as a man who longed for a country, but I go as a man who no longer needs a country, for no country on earth could give me what I need⁠—what I must some day find.” He did not know what he meant by the words, did not know, indeed, why he spoke them; but he went on gently stroking her hand, and now he heard himself speaking again: “It is you that I pity, you are patient and loving, and always you share my misfortunes⁠—but try not to cry; you will go back, I know, you will go back to the Campagna⁠—” and he added: “Just think of the white mule, Umberto, who was such an old robber of grapes!” Then Maddalena must smile through her tears, remembering the wicked Umberto. + 

“And the sheep all wear little bells,” said Maddalena. + 

“Si, si,” he consoled, “they all wear little bells⁠—and your Christ left the print of His foot in the stone⁠—and at sunrise the mists look purple and golden⁠—you have often told me about it.” + 

She said: “But will you come with me, Gian-Luca?” + 

And he answered: “Rome is the cradle of your faith⁠—would you not like to see St. Peter’s again, after all these years, Maddalena?” + 

“Yes, yes⁠—but you will come with me?” she persisted. And he answered: “It is very wonderful, St. Peter’s⁠—all night and all day they burn eighty-nine lamps, and the faithful kneel down and pray at the tomb⁠—you have often told me about it.” + 

Then her eyes grew reminiscent, and she started to tell him many things about the churches of Rome: San Pietro in Vincoli⁠—old, very old, and containing the chains of St. Peter; Santa Prassede with its bones of the martyr; Santa Bibiana, with its stump of a column at which the good saint had been scourged. And as she talked on he nodded and smiled and continued to fondle her hand. + 

“Ma si,” he murmured, “I am glad that you are Roman⁠—it must feel very fine to be Roman, I think⁠—so many brave deeds behind you, Maddalena⁠—and you too are brave, one can see it in your face; and now, look, you have quite stopped crying!” + 

The train had jolted itself into Modane, and all was noise and confusion. Shouting officials running backwards and forwards, dignified English folk talking Italian learnt from inadequate handbooks. There were people snatching a hasty sandwich or an orange, or an apple, or a bun⁠—not a fat currant bun, but its thin Latin cousin containing no currants at all. Presently the train was ready to start: “In vagone! In vagone! Partenza!” + 

And that was how Gian-Luca left the land of his fathers, taking Maddalena with him. + 