In the town they were having a procession.  Peter heard the chanting as they passed, saw, through the archways into the streets, glimpses of it.  He heard their plaintive hymn that entreated pity: 

  “Difendi, O Caterina
  Da peste, fame e guerra,
  Il popol di Cartoleto
  In mare e in terra...”

Above the hymn rose the howls of little St. John the Baptist, who had been, no doubt, suddenly mastered by his too high-spirited lamb and upset on to his face, so that his mother had to rush from out the crowd to comfort him and brush the dust from his curls that had been a-curling in papers these three weeks past.

It was no doubt a beautiful procession, and Peter and Thomas loved processions, but they had seen one that morning at Varenzano, so they were content to see and hear this from a distance.

Why, Peter speculated, do we not elsewhere thus beautify and sanctify our villages and cities and country places?  Why do they not, in fishing hamlets of a colder clime, thus bring luck to their fishing, thus summon the dear saints to keep and guard their shores?  Why, Peter for the hundredth time questioned, do we miss so much gaiety, so much loveliness, so much grace, that other and wiser people have?

Peter shook his head over it.

“A sad business, Thomas.  But here we are, you and I, and let us be thankful.  Thankful for this lovely country set with pleasant towns and religious manners and nice people, and for the colour and smoothness of the sea we’re going paddling in, and for our nice tea. Are you thankful, Thomas?  Yes, I’m sure you are.”

Someone, passing behind them, said with surprise, “Is that you, Margerison?”

Peter, looking round, his tin mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other, recognised an old schoolfellow.  He was standing on the beach staring at the tea-party—­the four disreputable vagabonds and their cart.

Peter laughed.  It rather amused him to come into sudden contact with the respectable; they were always so much surprised.  He had rather liked this man.  Some people had good-temperedly despised him for a molly-coddle; he had been a delicate boy, and had cherished himself rather.  Peter, delicate himself, incapable of despising anyone, and with a heart that went out to all unfortunates, had been, in a mild and casual way, his friend.  Looking into his face now, Peter was struck to sorrow and compassion, because it was the face of a man who had accepted death, and to whom life gave no more gifts, not even the peace of the lee shore.  It was a restless face, with hollow cheeks unnaturally flushed, and bitter, querulous lips.  His surprise at seeing Peter and his vagabond equipment made him cough.

When he had done coughing, he said, “What are you doing, Margerison?”

Peter said he was having tea.  “Have you had yours?  I’ve got another mug somewhere—­a china one.”

As he declined with thanks, Peter thought, “He’s dying.  Oh, poor chap, how ghastly for him,” and his immense pity made him even gentler than usual.  He couldn’t say, “How are you?” because he knew; he couldn’t say, “Isn’t this a nice place?” because Ashe must leave it so soon; he couldn’t say, “I am having a good time,” because Ashe would have no more good times, and, Peter suspected, had had few.