road began to rise towards Hadrian’s Villa, he sat down upon a stone by the wayside to rest a little.  He had walked five hours through the darkness, seeing but a few yards of the broad road before him as he went.  He was weary and footsore, and the night was growing wilder with gathering wind and rain as the storm swept down the mountains and through the deep gorge of Tivoli on its way to the desolate black Campagna.  He felt that if he did not die of exposure he was safe, and to a man in his condition bad weather is the least of evils.

His reflections were not sweet.  Five hours earlier he had been dressed as a fine gentleman should be, seated at a luxurious table in the company of a handsome and amusing woman who was to be his wife.  He could still almost taste the delicate chaud froid, the tender woodcock, the dry champagne; he could still almost hear Donna Tullia’s last noisy sally ringing in his ears—­and behold, he was now sitting by the roadside in the rain, in the wretched garb of a begging monk, five hours’ journey from Rome.  He had left his affianced bride without a word of warning, had abandoned all his possessions to Temistocle—­that scoundrelly thief Temistocle!—­and he was utterly alone.

But as he rested himself, drawing his monk’s hood closely over his head and trying to warm his freezing feet with the skirts of his rough brown frock, he reflected that if he ever got safely across the frontier he would be treated as a patriot, as a man who had suffered for the cause, and certainly as a man who deserved to be rewarded.  He reflected that Donna Tullia was a woman who had a theatrical taste for romance, and that his present position was in theory highly romantic, however uncomfortable it might be in the practice.  When he was safe his story would be told in the newspapers, and he would himself take care that it was made interesting.  Donna Tullia would read it, would be fascinated by the tale of his sufferings, and would follow him.  His marriage with her would then add immense importance to his own position.  He would play his cards well, and with her wealth at his disposal he might aspire to any distinction he coveted.  He only wished the situation could have been prolonged for three weeks, till he was actually married.  Meanwhile he must take courage and push on, beyond the reach of pursuit.  If once he could gain Subiaco, he could be over the frontier in twelve hours.  From Tivoli there were vetture up the valley, cheap conveyances for the country people, in which a barefooted friar could travel unnoticed.  He knew that he must cross the boundary by Trevi and the Serra di Sant’ Antonio.  He would inquire the way from Subiaco.