He had not been there for five years; he went on foot, for there was no other means of transit, and if there had been he would not have wasted money on it; the way was long and irksome; for the latter half, entirely up a steep mountain road.  He started in the early morning as soon as Mass had been celebrated, and it was four in the afternoon before he had passed the gates of the town, and paid his respects to the Bishop.  He rested in the Certosa, of which the superior was known to him; the monks, like the Bishop, had heard nothing.  So far as he could learn when he went into the streets no one in the place had heard anything of the project to alter the course of the river.  He made the return journey by night, so as to reach his church by daybreak, and was there in his place by the high altar when the bell tolled at six o’clock, and the three or four old people, who never missed an office, were kneeling on the stones.

He had walked over forty miles, and had eaten nothing except some bread and a piece of dried fish.  But he always welcomed physical fatigue; it served to send to sleep the restless intellect, the gnawing regrets, the bitter sense of wasted powers and of useless knowledge, which were his daily company.

He had begged his friends, the friars, to obtain an interview with the Syndic of Sand Beda, and interrogate him on the subject.  Until he should learn something positive he could not bring himself to speak of the matter to Adone:  but the fact of his unusual absence had too much astonished his little community for the journey not to have been the talk of Ruscino.  Surprised and disturbed like others, Adone was waiting for him in the sacristy after the first mass.

“You have been away a whole day and night and never told me, reverendissimo!” he cried in reproach and amazement.

“I have yet to learn that you are my keeper,” said Don Silverio with a cold and caustic intonation.

Adone coloured to the roots of his curling hair.

“That is unkind, sir!” he said humbly; “I only meant that —­ that —­”

“I know, I know!” said the priest impatiently, but with contrition.  “You meant only friendship and good-will; but there are times when the best intentions irk one.  I went to see the Prior of the Certosa, and old friend; I had business in San Beda.”

Adone was silent, afraid that he had shown an unseemly curiosity; he saw that Don Silverio was irritated and not at ease, and he hesitated what words to choose.

His friend relented, and blamed himself for being hurried by disquietude into harshness.

“Come and have a cup of coffee with me, my son,” he said in his old, kind tones.  “I am going home to break my fast.”

But Adone was hurt and humiliated, and made excuse of field work, which pressed by reason of the weather, and so he did not name to his friend and councillor the visit of the three men to the river.

Don Silverio went home and boiled his coffee; he always did this himself; it was the only luxury he ever allowed himself, and he did not indulge even in this very often.  But for once the draught had neither fragrance nor balm for him.  He was overtired, weary in mind as in body, and greatly dejected; even though nothing was known at San Beda he felt convinced that what he had read was the truth.