With some difficulty they found their way to the vine-dresser’s house, a mere hut in a remote fold of the hills.  From motives of prudence they had not warned the nurse of their coming; but they found the old woman already at work in her melon-patch and learned from her that her son had gone down to his day’s labour in the valley.  She received Fulvia with a tender wonder, as at some supernatural presence descending into her life, too much awed, till the first embraces were over, to risk any conjecture as to Odo’s presence.  But with the returning sense of familiarity—­the fancied recovery of the nurseling’s features in the girl’s definite outline—­came the inevitable reaction of curiosity, and the fugitives felt themselves coupled in the old woman’s meaning smiles.  To Odo’s surprise Fulvia received these innuendoes with baffling composure, parrying the questions she seemed to answer, and finally taking refuge in a plea for rest.  But the accord of the previous night was broken; and when the travellers set out again, starting a little before sunset to avoid the vine-dresser’s return, the constraint of the day began to weigh upon them.  In Fulvia’s case physical weariness perhaps had a share in the change; but whatever the cause, its effect was to make this stage of the journey strangely tedious to both.

Their way lay through the country north of Vicenza, whence they hoped by dawn to gain Peschiera on the lake of Garda, and hire a chaise which should take them across the border.  For the first hour or two they had the new moon to light them; but as it set the sky clouded and drops of rain began to fall.  Fulvia had hitherto shown a gay indifference to the discomforts of the journey; but she presently began to complain of the cold and to question Odo anxiously as to the length of the way.  The hilliness of the country forced them to travel slowly, and it seemed to Odo that hours had elapsed before they saw lights in the valley below them.  Their plan had been to avoid the towns on their way, and Fulvia, the night before, had contented herself with a half-hour’s rest by the roadside; but a heavy rain was now falling, and she at once assented to Odo’s tentative proposal that they should take shelter till the storm was over.

They dismounted at an inn on the outskirts of the village.  The sleepy landlord stared as he unbarred the door and led them into the kitchen; but he offered no comment beyond remarking that it was a good night to be under cover.

Fulvia sank down on the wooden settle near the chimney, where a fire had been hastily kindled.  She took no notice of Odo when he removed the dripping cloak from her shoulders, but sat gazing before her in a kind of apathy.

“I cannot eat,” she said, as Odo pressed her to take her place at the table.

The innkeeper turned to him with a confidential nod.  “Your lady looks fairly beaten,” he said.  “I’ve a notion that one of my good beds would be more to her taste than the best supper in the land.  Shall I have a room made ready for your excellencies?”