“The carriage cannot go through the streets,” said Don Teodoro, in explanation.  “They are too narrow and too rough.”

“No,” answered Veronica, as she stepped from the carriage upon the muddy stones.  “I will walk.  If the streets are good enough for my people, they are good enough for me.”

Even to the good priest this seemed a little exaggeration on her part.  But she had seen much that day of which she had never dreamed, and in her generous heart there was a sort of fierce wrath against so much misery, with a strong impulse to share it or cure it, to face the devil on his own ground, and beat him to death, hand to hand.  It was perhaps foolish of her to walk to her own gate, but there was nothing to be ashamed of in the feeling which prompted her to do it.

Don Teodoro walked beside her on the left, and Elettra pressed close to her on the right, as they threaded the foul black lanes towards the castle.  The moment she had left the carriage, men and women and children had seized eagerly upon her belongings, to carry the bags and rugs and little packages, and now they followed her in a compact crowd, all talking together in harsh undertones; and from the dark doorways, as she went by, old women and old men came out, and more children, half clothed in rags, and cripples four or five.  The pigs that were out in the lanes were caught in the press and struggled desperately to get out of it, upsetting even strong men with their heavy bodies as they charged through the crowd, grunting and squealing.  A few people coming from the opposite direction, too, flattened themselves against the black walls and low, greasy doors, but there was not room even there, and they also were taken up by the throng and driven before, till the small crowd grew to a little multitude of miserable, curious, hungry, scrambling humanity, squeezing along the narrow way to get sight of the lady before she should reach the castle gate.

From time to time the tall old priest turned mildly and protested, trying to get more air and elbow room for Veronica.

“Gently, gently, my children!” he called to them.  “You will see your princess often, for she is come to stay with you.”

“Eh, uncle priest!” cried a rough young voice.  “That is fair and good, but who believes it?”

“Eh, who believes it?” echoed a dozen voices, young and old.

Veronica laid her hand upon Don Teodoro’s arm to steady herself as she trod upon the slimy stones.  She could not have stopped, for the crowd, extending far behind her in the dim street, would have pushed her down, but she turned her head as she walked and spoke in the direction of the people.  Her voice rang high and clear over their heads.

“I have come to live with you,” she said, and they heard her even far off.  “It is true.  You shall see.”

“God render it you!” said a woman’s voice.  “May God make it true!”

“More than one of them are saying that to themselves,” observed Don Teodoro, as Veronica looked before her again, and walked on.