onlight had not been so pale, Benedetto would have seen two
great tears rolling down the young girl's face.

"I believe," he replied, "that until the death of our planet, our future
life will be one of labour upon it, and that all those minds which
aspire to truth, to unity, will meet there, and labour together." The
muleteer's hobnailed shoes, which grated among the pebbles, could be
heard very near them. The woman said:

"_Addio_! Farewell!"

The tears sounded in her voice now. Benedetto answered:

"_A Dio_! God be with you!"

Mounted on the mule, he goes down into the shadows of the valley. He is
burning with fever. He is going to Casa Selva, after all. He knows, for
the muleteer has told him, that he will not see Noemi there; but that
is indifferent to him, he does not fear her, does not even remember the
moment of gentle emotion. Another feverish thought is stirring in his
soul. There is a whirl of words spoken by Don Clemente, by the lad
Alberti, by the elderly Englishwoman, while fragments of the Vision
flash like pictures before his mind's eye. Yes, he will go to Casa
Selva, but only for a short time. As he ascends, the mighty voice of the
Anio roars louder, ever louder, out of the depths:

"Rome! Rome! Rome!"

CHAPTER VI. THREE LETTERS

JEANNE TO NOEMI. VENA DI FONTE ALTA, July 4,----

Forgive me if I write to you in pencil. I have just reread your letter
here, at a point half an hour distant from the hotel, seated on the
edge of a stone basin where the flocks come to drink. The tiny stream of
water which trickles into the basin from a small wooden pipe reminds me,
with its gentle voice, of something which makes my heart ache; a walk
with him across fields and through woods in the mist; a halt by this
very spring, painful words, a few tears, something written in the water,
a moment of happiness--the last. I made a great sacrifice for Carlino's
sake when I returned to Vena after an absence of three years. I have
always loved him, but the message from Jenne would make me face far
greater sacrifices than this for him, make me face them willingly,
though conscious of having lost all merit in them.

I am not satisfied with your letters; I will tell you why sometime, but
not now. It is too difficult to write here. The mist is rolling down
from the uplands high above the spring, and a cold west wind is blowing.
I must be careful of my health on Carlino's account, and this is another
sacrifice, for