It was not for the first time in his life that he had pressed against the iron gates of interest and formula and oppression, and only bruised his breast and torn his hands.

He had a little sum of money put by in case of illness and for his burial; that was the only fund on which he could draw to take him to Rome and keep him when there, and it was so small that it would be soon exhausted.  He passed the best part of the night doubting which way his duty pointed.  He fasted, prayed, and communed with his soul, and at length it seemed to him as if a voice from without said to him, “Take up your staff, and go.”  For the journey appalled him, and where his inclination pointed he had taught himself to see error.  He shrank inexpressibly from going into the noise and glare and crowd of men; he clung to his solitude as a timid animal to its lair; and therefore he felt persuaded that he ought to leave Ruscino on his errand, because it was so acutely painful to him.

Whilst he should be gone Adone at least would do nothing rash; would of course await the issue of his investigations.  Time brings council, and time, he hoped, would in this instance befriend him.  He had already obtained the necessary permission to leave his parish; he then asked for a young friend from San Beda to take his place in the village; left his little dog to the care of Nerina; took his small hoard in a leathern bag strapped to his loins, and went on his way at daybreak along the southwest portion of the valley, to cover on foot the long distance which lay between him and the nearest place at which a public vehicle went twice a week to a railway station; whence he could take the train to Terni and so to Rome.

Adone accompanied him the first half of the way, but they said little to one another; their hearts were full.  Adone could not forget the rebuke given to him, and Don Silverio was too wise a man to lean heavily on a sore and aching wound, or repeat counsels already given and rejected.

At the third milestone he stopped and begged, in a tone which was a command, the young man to return home.

“Do not leave your land for me,” he said.  “Every hour is of gold at this season.  Go back, my son!  I pray that I may bring you peace.”

“Give me your blessing,” said Adone meekly, and he knelt down in the dust of the roadside.  His friend gave it; then their hands met in silent farewell.

The sun had risen, and the cold clear air was yielding to its rays.  The young man reluctantly turned back, and left the priest to go onward alone, a tall, dark figure in the morning light; the river running between acacia thickets and rushes on his right.  Before long he was forced to leave the course of the stream, and ascend a rugged and precipitous road which mounted southward and westward through oak woods into the mountains between the Leonessa and Gran Sasso, until it reached a shrunken, desolate village, with fine Etruscan and Roman remains left to perish, and