“There were four horses, and he had nothing to give them but water and grass,” said the cooper.  “The gentry brought wine and food for themselves.  They came the day before yesterday and slept here.  They went away this morning.  They paid me well, oh, very well.  I did what I could for them.  It is five-and-thirty miles if one off Teramo, aye, nearer forty.  They followed the old posting road; but you know where it enters the woods it is all overgrown, and gone to rack and ruin, from want of use.  In my grandfather’s time it was a fine, well-kept highway, with posthouses every ten miles, though a rare place for robbery; but nowadays nobody wants it at all, for nobody comes or goes.  It will soon be blocked, so the driver says; it will soon be quite choked up what with brambles, and rocks, and fallen trees, and what not.  He was black with rage, for he was obliged to go back as he had come, and he said he had been cheated into the job.”

Adone listened wearily to the garrulous Ruffo, who emphasised each phrase with a blow of his little hammer on a shoe.  He had wasted all his morning hours, and learned nothing.  He felt like a man who is lost in a strange and deserted country at night; he could find no clue, could see no light.  Perhaps if he went to the seaport town, which was the Prefecture, he might hear something?

But he had never left the valley of the Edera except for that brief time which he had passed under arms in the north.  He felt that he had no means, no acquaintance, no knowledge, whereby he could penetrate the mystery of this scheme.  He did not even know the status of the promoters, or the scope of their speculation.  The Prefecture was placed in a port on the Adriatic which had considerable trade to the Dalmatian and Greek coasts, but he scarcely knew its name.  If he went there what could he do or learn?  Would the stones speak, or the waves tell that which he thirsted to know?  What use was the martial blood in his veins?  He could not strike an invisible foe.

“Don’t go to meet trouble half way,” said the man Ruffo, meaning well.  “I may have mistaken the driver.  They cannot take hold of a river, how should they?  Water slips through your fingers.  Where it was set running in the beginning of the world, there it will go on running till the crack of doom.  Let them look; let them prate; they can’t take it.”

But Adone’s reason would not allow him to be so consoled.

He understood a little of what hydraulic science can compass; he knew what canalisation meant, and its assistance to traffic and trade; he had seen the waterworks on the Po, on the Adige, on the Mincio; he had heard how the Velino had been enslaved for the steel foundry of Terni, how the Nerino fed the ironworks of Narni; he had seen the Adda captive at Lodi, and the lakes held in bond at Mantua; he had read of the water drawn from Monte Amiata; and not very many miles off him, in the Abruzzo, was that hapless Fuscino, which had been emptied and dried up by rich meddlers of Rome.