shadows, it was Maria herself who gazed
at him with glassy, feverish eyes.

When he reached Vercelli, he felt as if he were a thousand miles from
Turin, and once more awoke to a sense of reality. How should he get from
Lugano to Oria? What route should he take? Should he go openly by the
lake, showing himself at the Custom-House? And what if they would not
allow him to proceed because his passport had not been stamped on
leaving Italy as the law demanded? Or, worse still, what if a warrant of
arrest be out against him on account of those papers taken from the
doctor at Pellio? He had better keep to the hills. They might arrest him
later, but with his knowledge of the neighbourhood, acquired on his many
hunting expeditions in 1848, he was almost sure of reaching home. This
wearisome task of planning and arranging absorbed his attention for some
time, and kept him occupied until he had passed Arona, on the Lake
Maggiore steamer. He had arranged to reach Lugano in the middle of the
night. Would there be some one there to meet him? If there were no one
there, perhaps he might hear something at the Fontana pharmacy, where
the Valsolda people were in the habit of congregating. If God would only
permit reassuring news to reach him at Lugano he would postpone decision
as to his journey to Oria until the morrow. He therefore determined to
make no plans before reaching Lugano, and he prayed fervently that the
Almighty would allow this good news to reach him. The sky was overcast;
the mountains had already assumed their sad autumnal tints; a thin mist
hung over the lake; the bells of Meina were ringing; on the steamer
there were but few passengers, and Franco's prayer died in his heart,
stifled by a crushing sadness, while his eyes unconsciously followed a
flock of white gulls, that were winging their flight towards the distant
waters of Laveno, towards that hidden country where his soul was.

It was past seven when he reached Magadino. He climbed Monte Ceneri on
foot, following the path that leads to the road-mender's house, took a
carriage at Bironico and reached Lugano shortly after midnight. He
alighted in the Piazza, near Cafe Terreni. The coffee-house was closed,
the square was deserted and dark, and silence reigned; even the lake,
which could be seen gently rising and falling in the gloom, was silent.
Franco paused a moment on the shore, hoping that some one had come to
meet him, and would presently appear. He could not se