Then, afraid of having said so much, she dropped her curtsey and went out into the street.  But in another moment she came back into the study with a scared, blanched face, in which the wrinkles were scarred deep like furrows in a field.

“Sir —­ sir!” she gasped, “there are the soldiery amongst us.”

Don Silverio rose in haste, put the little dog on his armchair, closed the door of his study, and went down the narrow stone passage which parted his bookroom from the entrance.  The lofty doorway showed him the stones of the familiar street, a buttress of his church, a great branch of one of the self-sown ilex-trees, the glitter of the arms and the white leather of the cross belts of a sentinel.  The shrill lamentations of the women seemed to rend the sunny air.  He shuddered as he heard.  Coming up the street farther off were half a troop of carabineers and a score of dragoons; the swords of the latter were drawn, the former had their carbines levelled.  The villagers, screaming with terror, were closing their doors and shutters in frantic haste; the door of the presbytery alone remained open.  Don Silverio went into the middle of the road and addressed the officer who headed the carabineers.

“May I ask to what my parish owes this visit?”

“We owe no answer to you, reverend sir,” said the lieutenant.

The people were sobbing hysterically, catching their children in their arms, calling to the Holy Mother to save them, kneeling down on the sharp stones in the dust.  Their priest felt ashamed of them.

“My people,” he called to them, “do not be afraid.  Do not hide yourselves.  Do not kneel to these troopers.  You have done no wrong.”

“I forbid you to address the crowd,” said the officer.  “Get you back into your house.”

“What is my offence?”

“You will learn in good time,” said the commandant.  “Get you into your presbytery.”

“My place is with my people.”

The officer, impatient, struck him on the chest with the pommel of his sword.

Two carabineers thrust him back into the passage.

“No law justifies your conduct,” he said coldly, “or authorises you to sever me from my flock.”

“The sabre is law here,” said the lieutenant in command.

“It is the only law known anywhere in this kingdom,” said Don Silverio.

“Arrest him,” said the officer.  “He is creating disorder.”

The carabineers drove him into his study, and a brigadier began to ransack his papers and drawers.

He said nothing; the seizure of his manuscripts and documents was indifferent to him, for there was nothing he had ever written which would not bear the fullest light.  But the insolent and arbitrary act moved him to keen anxiety, because it showed that the military men had licence to do their worst, at their will, and his anguish of apprehension was for Adone.  He could only hope and pray that Adone had returned,