At last he finished writing, and put his letter into the only envelope there was left.  He gave it to me, and said he would go out and order his mules to be ready.

“I may be gone all day,” he said, “and I may return in a few hours.  I cannot tell.  In any case, wait for me, and give the letter and all instructions to the man, if he comes.”  Then he thanked me once more very affectionately, and having embraced me he went out.

I watched him from the window, and he looked up and waved his hand.  I remember it very distinctly—­just how he looked.  His face was paler than ever, his lips were close set, though they smiled, and his eyes were sad.  He is an incomprehensible boy—­he always was.

I was left alone, with plenty of time for meditation, and I assure you my reflections were not pleasant.  O love, love, what madness you drive us into, by day and night!  Surely it is better to be a sober professor of philosophy than to be in love, ever so wildly, or sorrowfully, or happily.  I do not wonder that a parcel of idiots have tried to prove that Dante loved philosophy and called it Beatrice.  He would have been a sober professor, if that were true, and a happier man.  But I am sure it is not true, for I was once in love myself.

CHAPTER XVII

It fell out as Nino had anticipated, and when he told me all the details, some time afterwards, it struck me that he had shown an uncommon degree of intelligence in predicting that the old count would ride alone that day.  He had, indeed, so made his arrangements that even if the whole party had come out together nothing worse would have occurred than a postponement of the interview he sought.  But he was destined to get what he wanted that very day, namely, an opportunity of speaking with Von Lira alone.

It was twelve o’clock when he left me, and the mid-day bell was ringing from the church, while the people bustled about getting their food.  Every old woman had a piece of corn cake, and the ragged children got what they could, gathering the crumbs in their mothers’ aprons.  A few rough fellows who were not away at work in the valley munched the maize bread with a leek and a bit of salt fish, and some of them had oil on it.  Our mountain people eat scarcely anything else, unless it be a little meat on holidays, or an egg when the hens are laying.  But they laugh and chatter over the coarse fare, and drink a little wine when they can get it.  Just now, however, was the season for fasting, being the end of Holy Week, and the people made a virtue of necessity, and kept their eggs and their wine for Easter.