The abate sneezed and tapped his snuff-box.

“Come, come, cavaliere, you must be brave—­you must be a man; you have duties, you have responsibilities.  It’s your duty to console your mother—­the poor lady is plunged in despair.  Eh?  What’s that?  You haven’t told him?  Cavaliere, your illustrious father is no more.”

Odo stared a moment without understanding; then his grief burst from him in a great sob, and he hid himself against Filomena’s apron, weeping for the father in damascened armour and scarlet cloak.

“Come, come,” said the abate impatiently.  “Is supper laid? for we must be gone as soon as the mist rises.”  He took the little boy by the hand.  “Would it not distract your mind to recite the catechism?” he inquired.

“No, no!” cried Odo with redoubled sobs.

“Well, then, as you will.  What a madman!” he exclaimed to Filomena.  “I warrant it hasn’t seen its father three times in its life.  Come in, cavaliere; come to supper.”

Filomena had laid a table in the stone chamber known as the bailiff’s parlour, and thither the abate dragged his charge and set him down before the coarse tablecloth covered with earthen platters.  A tallow dip threw its flare on the abate’s big aquiline face as he sat opposite Odo, gulping the hastily prepared frittura and the thick purple wine in its wicker flask.  Odo could eat nothing.  The tears still ran down his cheeks and his whole soul was possessed by the longing to steal back and see whether the figure of the knight in the scarlet cloak had vanished from the chapel wall.  The abate sat in silence, gobbling his food like the old black pig in the yard.  When he had finished he stood up, exclaiming:  “Death comes to us all, as the hawk said to the chicken.  You must be a man, cavaliere.”  Then he stepped into the kitchen, and called out for the horses to be put to.

The farm hands had slunk away to one of the outhouses, and Filomena and Jacopone stood bowing and curtseying as the carriage drew up at the kitchen door.  In a corner of the big vaulted room the little foundling was washing the dishes, heaping the scraps in a bowl for herself and the fowls.  Odo ran back and touched her arm.  She gave a start and looked at him with frightened eyes.  He had nothing to give her, but he said:  “Good-bye, Momola”; and he thought to himself that when he was grown up and had a sword he would surely come back and bring her a pair of shoes and a panettone.  The abate was calling him, and the next moment he found himself lifted into the carriage, amid the blessings and lamentations of his foster-parents; and with a great baying of dogs and clacking of whipcord the horses clattered out of the farmyard, and turned their heads toward Pianura.