s it happens, Monsieur l'Abbe Froment
is stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months
or so."

"Yes, I'm aware of it," Santobono quietly replied; "I found Monsieur
l'Abbe with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.
Those were less ripe, but these are perfect." So speaking he gave the
little basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more
closely between his huge and hairy fingers.

Then came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread
out as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;
there was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse
whose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning
to turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into
sight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,
boundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.
Then, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were
seen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,
still yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,
cantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final
look round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A
_biroccino_, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small
seat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time
to time also the victoria passed a _carrotino_, one of the low carts in
which peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,
vegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of
horses' bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known
road of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound
asleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts
caught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the
road again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,
without a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst
yonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in
its monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of
heaven.

"And the Pope, Abbe, is he dead?" Prada suddenly inquired.

Santobono did not even start. "I trust," he replied in all simplicity,
"that his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of
the Church."

"So