table at the one o'clock
meal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as
usual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till
the evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or
would only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that
be? At this point Prada's clearness of vision failed him; again he
conjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the
road from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all
obstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs
went ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in
the world had power enough to prevent.

And at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched
away in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if
from a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the
silver sky. Three o'clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt
himself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous
moan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the
Count, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third
time allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a
sneering laugh, and pressing the priest's hands, exclaimed: "No, no, I am
not going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think
that I had fallen in love with my wife again."

And thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear
night, without once looking round.

XIII.

WHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o'clock striking.
Fatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he had
slept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he opened
his eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought was
that he would see the Pope that evening at nine o'clock. Ten more hours
to wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day,
whose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and opened
the windows to admit the warm air which, as he had noticed on the day of
his arrival, had a savour of fruit and flowers, a blending, as it were,
of the perfume of rose and orange. Could this possibly be December? What
a delightful land, that the spring should seem to flower on the very
threshold of winter! Then, having dressed, he was leaning out of the
wi