. Till we have gone back to the places themselves,
we can never realise the life we led there; how we felt in that long
ago; what we thought of, what we ambitioned.

Wonderful messengers of conscience are these same old memories! the
little garden we used to dig; the narrow bed we slept in; our old bench
at school, deep graven on the heart, with all its thrilling incidents of
boyish life; the pathway through the flowery meadow down to the stream,
where we used to bathe; the little summer-house under the honeysuckles,
where we heard or invented such marvellous stories. Rely upon it, there
is not one of these unassociated with some high hopes, some generous
notion, some noble ambition; something, in short, which we meant to be,
but never realised; some path we intended to follow, but strayed from in
that wild and tumultuous conflict we call life.

Guided by the little river, on which the setting sun was now shedding
its last lustre, Gerald walked along beside his horse, and just as the
night was falling reached the mill. To his great surprise did he learn
that he was full fifty miles from Orvieto, for though he had parsed an
entire day, from earliest dawn, on the way, he had never contemplated
the distance he had travelled. As it was no unusual occurrence for
special couriers with despatches to pass by this route toward the Tuscan
frontier, his appearance caused little remark, and he was invited to sit
down at the miller's table when the household assembled for supper.

'You are bound for St. Stephano, I 'll warrant,' said the miller, as he
stood looking at Gerald, who bedded down his tired beast.

Gerald assented with a nod, and went on with his work.

'If I were you, then, I 'd not take the low road by the Lago Scuro at
this season.'

'And why so?'

'Just for this reason: they have got malaria fever up in the mountains,
and the refugees who live up there, for safety against the carabinieri,
are obliged to come down into the plains, and they troop the roads
here in gangs of twenty and thirty, making the country insecure after
nightfall.'

'They are brigands, then?' asked Gerald.

'Every man, ay, and every woman of them! They respect neither priest
nor prefect. What think you they did three weeks ago at Somarra? A
travelling company of players coming through the town obtained leave
from the Delegato to give a representation. The theatre was crammed, as
you may well believe, such a pleasure not being an everyday