While all these devotees were winding their way round about the Piazza, Virginia and I had been sitting on a patch of grass by the roadway in the company of a country lad, who became extremely friendly.  He was a goatherd from San Benedetto in Alpi, he told us, and had played truant for the day, walking over the stony hills for some sixteen or twenty miles and intending to return the same road at night.  His name was Ercole; and that, as I told him, was as it should be.  But I added, “Hercules served Eurystheus for twelve years for one clear purpose, which was that he might achieve immortality; and some of us labour for the same end, and others of us for ends which seem to us equally good.  Will you tell me, Ercole, why you have undertaken these prodigious exertions of yours?”

Ercole shrugged.  “There is no life upon our mountains,” he said.  “Moreover, Santa Caterina was a great saint, as I have heard your master say just now.  Nor can you deny it.”

I said, “I do not deny it.  But the saints never fail us.  Wheresoever one may dwell, there are they; and by the merits of holy baptism and the benefits of the Mass we may be in communion with them whether we live on mountain or plain.”

“That is true,” said Ercole.  “Yet that was a good procession.  I would not have missed it for two gold florins.  I expect that in your country you have no finer processions of priests and noble ladies of religion.  I am myself impassioned for religion.”

“I too,” was my answer.  “But in my poor country the true faith is enmeshed in cold shrouds of unbelief.  We dare not have processions, but cry unto God in secret; and no profession is more discredited with us than that of virgin.”

“That is a terrible thing you tell me there,” says he.  “What else is a girl to do if she cannot marry the man of her heart?”

“We have our compensations,” I replied; “we worship in the dark, hoping to be rewarded in the full light of heaven.  Persecution has braced us; the Church had grown lax.  With us, for instance, you would never see religious behave as here they do.  Did you observe that nun that looked me full in the face as the procession went by?”

Ercole’s eyes flashed; but he said nothing.  I went on, “That would be impossible in my country, I can assure you.”

“Pardon me,” says Ercole; “you misunderstood the lady.  It was not at you that she looked.”

“Certainly it was not,” said Virginia with decision.

“She looked at me,” the boy said, “and I looked at her.  She knew that I should be here.”

“Ho!” said I, and Virginia said, “Gia!”

Ercole then explained.  “That lady is Donna Domenica degli Onesti, who was daughter of my master, the Marchese Onesti, when I was dog-keeper to him at Bogazzano.  She was always there, being in delicate health, and we loved each other from the first.  There was no doubt at all about the matter.”

“How could there be any doubt?” said Virginia; but Ercole took no notice of her.