different from that of his usual habit,
filled him with a curiosity, rather amused than troubled, concerning his
own identity. He felt his breast, the buttons, the button-holes, without
understanding. He thought. A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the
field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying
dead on the grass, near the cross.

Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us
when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They
were Piero Maironi's clothes. He was still Piero Maironi. This thought
terrified him, and he recovered his senses completely. He rose to a
sitting posture, looked at himself, looked about him at the field and
the hills, veiled in the shades of evening. At sight of the great cross,
his mind regained its composure. He felt ill, very ill. He tried to
rise to his feet, but found it difficult to do so. Directing his
steps towards the mulepath, he asked himself what he should do in that
condition. Some one coming swiftly down the path from Jenne stopped
before him; he heard the exclamation: "Oh! my God! it is you!" He
recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken so passionately to
him while the storm was raging. She alone of all those at Jenne who
had heard the boy's story had come to him. The others had either not
believed or not wished to believe. She had come running, and mad with
grief. Now she had stopped suddenly, and stood speechless, not two steps
from him. He, not suspecting she had come on his account, wished her
good-night and passed on. She did not return his salutation, for, after
the first moment of joy, she was distressed to see him walk with such
difficulty, and she did not dare to follow him. She saw him stop and
speak to a man riding a mule, who was coming up. She rushed forward to
hear what was said. The man was a muleteer, sent by the Selvas to look
for Benedetto. The Selvas, with two mules for the ladies, had left Jenne
soon after him, thinking to overtake him on the hillside. Reaching the
Anio without having seen him, they questioned a passer-by coming from
Sublaco. He could give them no news of Benedetto. Noemi, who was to
take the last train for Tivoli, went on with Giovanni, hiding her
disappointment. The muleteer had been sent back to Jenne to look for
Benedetto, and to fetch a parasol which had been forgotten at the inn.
Maria was awaiting his return among the rocks of the Infernillo. The
young s