“But,” said I, “we have here two things that are hard to put together.  In a time of health, when there is no sickness in the land, thou must go hungry.  And when sickness comes, and the pastor’s flock are busy with their dying, they will have no time to go to communion.  How are these things arranged?”

“Even thus,” replied Father Philip.  “It is agreed upon that we pool the proceeds and divide fairly, so that our incomes are small but regular.  Yet, I beseech thee, tell it not in this municipality, nor yet in the next village; for in the public places we scowl at one another as we pass by, Pastor Gentinetta and I.”

“And which is earning the crust now?” said I.

The jovial priest laughed, nodding sagely with his head.

“Gentinetta hath his sacraments on Tuesday, and his addresses to his folk have been full of pleasant warnings.  It will be a good time with us.”

“And when comes your turn?” cried Henry, who was much interested by this recital.

“There cometh at the end of the barley harvest, by the grace of God, a fat time of sickness, when many dues are paid; and when the addresses from the altar of this Church of Sant Philip are worth the hearing.”

The old priest moved the glass of good wine at his elbow, the fellow of the Montepulciano he had set at ours.

“A bad town this Spellino,” he muttered; “but I, Father Philip, thank the saints—­and Gentinetta, he thanks his mother, for the wit which makes it possible for poor servants of God to live.”

The old servant thrust her head within.

“Tonino Scala is very sick,” she said, “and calleth for thee!”

The priest nodded, rose from his seat, and took down a thick leather-bound book.

“Lire thirty-six,” he said—­“it is well.  It begins to be my time.  This week Gentinetta and his younglings shall have chicken-broth.”

So with heartiest goodwill we bade our kind Father Philip adieu, and fared forth upon our way.

CHAPTER V

THE COUNTESS CASTEL DEL MONTE

After leaving Spellino we went downhill.  There was a plain beneath, but up on the hillside only the sheep were feeding contentedly, all with their broad-tailed sterns turned to us.  The sun was shining on the white diamond-shaped causeway stones which led across a marshy place.  We came again to the foot of the hill.  It had indeed been no more than a dividing ridge, which we had crossed over by Spellino.

We saw the riband of the road unwind before us.  One turn swerved out of sight, and one alone.  But round this curve, out of the unseen, there came toward us the trampling of horses.  A carriage dashed forward, the coachman’s box empty, the reins flying wide among the horses’ feet.  There was but little time for thought; yet as they passed I caught at their heads, for I was used to horses.  Then I hung well back, allowing myself to be jerked forward in great leaps, yet never quite loosing my hold.  It was but a chance, yet a better one than it looked.