Cold northern blasts blew from the upper Apennines, and piled the snows upon the grey and yellow rocks of the Abruzzo heights, as he crossed the valley of the Edera towards Ruscino.  It seemed to him as though a century had passed since he had left it.  In the icy wind which blew form the hills he shivered, for he had only one poor, thin coat to cover him.  His strength, naturally great, had given way under the mental and physical sufferings of the last six months, although no word of lament had ever escaped him.  Like all generous natures he rebuked himself for the sins of others.  Incessantly he asked himself —­ might he not have saved Adone?

As he came to the turn in the road which brought him within sight of the river, he sat down on a stone and covered his eyes with his hands.

The sacristan had come to meet him, bringing the little dog, grown thin, and sad, and old with sorrow.

“I did all I could for him, but he would not be consoled,” murmured the old man.

From the point which they had reached the course of the Edera, and the lands of the Terra Vergine, were visible.  With an effort, like one who forces his will to look on a dead face, he uncovered his eyes and looked downward.  The olive-trees were still standing; where the house had stood there was a black, charred, roofless shell; the untilled fields lay bare beneath the frost.

“Reverend sir,” said the old man below his breath, “when Clelia Alba knew that Adone was drowned she set fire to the house, and so perished.  They say she had promised her son.”

The wind from the north swept across the valley and drove the river in yellow foam and black eddies through the dead sedges.  Above Ruscino the acacia thickets had been cut down, the herbage was crushed under timber and iron and stone, the heather was trampled and hacked, the sand and gravel were piled in heaps, the naked soil yawned in places like fresh-dug graves; along the southern bank were laid the metals of a light railway; on the lines of it were some trucks filled with bricks; the wooden huts of the workmen covered a dreary, dusty space; the water was still flowing, but on all the scene were the soil, the disorder, the destruction, the vulgar meanness and disfigurement which accompany modern labour, and affront like a coarse bruise the gracious face of Nature.

“There have been three hundred men form the Puglie at work,” said the sacristan.  “They have stopped awhile now on account of the frost, but as soon as the weather opens —­”

“Enough, enough!” murmured Don Silverio; and he rose, and holding the little dog in his arms, went on down the familiar road.

“His body has never been found?” he asked under his breath.

The old man shook his head.

“Nay, sir; what Edera takes it keeps.  He dropped where he knew it was deepest.”

As the vicar returned up the village street there was not a soul to give him greeting except old Gianna, who kneeled weeping at his feet.  The people poured out of their doorways, but they said not a word of welcome.  The memory of Adone was an idolatry with them, and Adone had said that their priest had betrayed them.  One woman threw a stone at Signorino.  Don Silverio covered the little dog, and received the blow on his own arm.