he house, signora, on the mountain. One cannot speak with him
to-day."

"Why not?"

"Non lo so. But he is terrible to-day!"

So Lucrezia had noticed Gaspare's strangeness, too, even in the midst of
her sorrow!

"Gaspare!" Hermione called.

There was no answer.

"Gaspare!"

She called louder.

"Si, signora!"

The voice came from somewhere behind the house.

"I am going for a walk with Lucrezia. We shall be back at nine. Tell the
padrone if he comes."

"Si, signora."

The two women set out without seeing Gaspare. They walked in silence down
the mountain-path. Lucrezia held her candle carefully, like one in a
procession. She was not sobbing now. There were no tears in her eyes. The
companionship and the sympathy of her padrona had given her some courage,
some hope, had taken away from her the desolate feeling, the sensation of
abandonment which had been torturing her. And then she had an almost
blind faith in the Madonna della Rocca. And the padrona was going to
pray, too. She was not a Catholic, but she was a lady and she was good.
The Madonna della Rocca must surely be influenced by her petition.

So Lucrezia plucked up a little courage. The activity of the walk helped
her. She knew the solace of movement. And perhaps, without being
conscious of it, she was influenced by the soft beauty of the evening, by
the peace of the hills. But as they crossed the ravine they heard the
tinkle of bells, and a procession of goats tripped by them, following a
boy who was twittering upon a flute. He was playing the tune of the
tarantella, that tune which Hermione associated with careless joy in the
sun. He passed down into the shadows of the trees, and gradually the airy
rapture of his fluting and the tinkle of the goat-bells died away towards
Marechiaro. Then Hermione saw tears rolling down over Lucrezia's brown
cheeks.

"He can't play it like Sebastiano, signora!" she said.

The little tune had brought back all her sorrow.

"Perhaps we shall soon hear Sebastiano play it again," said Hermione.

They began to climb upward on the far side of the ravine towards the
fierce silhouette of the Saracenic castle on the height. Beneath the
great crag on which it was perched was the shrine of the Madonna della
Rocca. Night was coming now, and the little lamp before the shrine shone
gently, throwing a ray of light upon the stones of the path. When they
reached it, Lucrezia crossed herself, and they stood together for a
mome