Had he not sung in those glorious days of hope and faith,

    “Fratelli d’Italia! 
    L’Italia s’e desta!”

In the night which followed on the fourteenth day of the Vicar’s absence, Adone, unable either to rest or to labour, went into his cattle-stalls and fed and watered all the animals, then he crossed the river and went along its north bank by the same path which he had followed with Don Silverio two weeks earlier.  He had passed to and fro that path often since his friend’s departure, for by it the priest must return; there was no other way to and from the west.

Rain had fallen in the night, and the river was buoyant, and the grass sparkled, the mountains were of sapphire blue, and above the shallows clouds of flies and gnats were fluttering, waterlilies were blossoming where the water was still, and in the marshes buffaloes pushed their dark forms amongst the nymphoea and the nuphar.

He had no longer any eyes to see these things; he only strained his sight to catch the first glimpse of a tired traveler.  The landscape here was level for many miles of moor and pasture and a human form approaching could be seen from a great distance.  It was such a dawn as he had used to love beyond all other blessings of nature; but now the buffaloes in the pools and swamps were not more blind to its charm than he.

The sun rose behind him out of the unseen Adrian waves, and a rosy light spread itself over the earth; and at that moment he saw afar off a dark form moving slowly.  With a loud cry he sprang forward and ran with the fleetness of a colt the hundred yards which were between him and that familiar figure.

“My son! my dear son!” cried Don Silverio, as Adone reached him and fell on his knees on the scorched turf.

“At last!” he murmured, choked with joy and fear.  “Oh, where have you been?  We are half dead, your people and I. What tidings do you bring?  What comfort?”

“Rise up, and remember that you are a man,” said Don Silverio; and the youth, gazing upwards keenly into his face, suddenly lost all hope, seeing no ray of hope on that weary countenance.

“You cannot save us?” he cried, with a scream like a wounded hare’s.

“I cannot, my dear son,” answered Don Silverio.

Adone dropped backward as if a bullet had struck him; his head smote the dry ground; he had lost consciousness, his face was livid.

Don Silverio raised him and dragged him into the shade of a bay-tree and dashed water on him from the river.  In a few minutes he was roused and again conscious, but on his features there was a dazed, stunned look.

“You cannot save us?” he repeated.

“Neither you nor I have millions,” said Don Silverio with bitterness.  “It is with no other weapon that men can fight successfully now.”

Adone had risen to his feet; he was pale as a corpse, only the blood was set in his forehead.