“Gouache is studying geography,” remarked Corona.

“Another of those Capuccini!” exclaimed Giovanni, instinctively feeling in his pocket for coppers.  Then with a sudden movement he seized his wife’s arm.  She was close to him as they rode slowly along side by side.

“Good God!  Corona,” he cried, “it is Del Ferice!” Corona looked quickly at the monk.  His cowl was raised enough to show his features; but she would, perhaps, not have recognised his smooth shaven face had Giovanni not called her attention to it.

Del Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, he paused, trembling and uncertain what to do.  He had taken the wrong turn from the main road below; unaccustomed to the dialect of the hills, he had misunderstood the peasant who had told him especially not to take the bridle-path if he wished to avoid Saracinesca.  He stopped, hesitated, and then, pulling his cowl over his face, walked steadily on.  Giovanni glanced up and saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still absorbed in contemplating the landscape.

“Let him take his chance,” muttered Saracinesca.  “What should I care?”

“No—­no!  Save him, Giovanni,—­he looks so miserable,” cried Corona, with ready sympathy.  She was pale with excitement.

Giovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but her pleading eyes were not to be refused.

“Then gallop back, darling.  Tell Gouache it is cold in the valley—­anything.  Make him go back with you—­I will save him since you wish it.”

Corona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered up the hill again.  The monk had continued his slow walk, and was now almost at Giovanni’s saddle-bow.  The latter drew rein, staring hard at the pale features under the cowl.

“If you go on you are lost,” he said, in low distinct tones.  “The Zouaves are waiting for you.  Stop, I say!” he exclaimed, as the monk attempted to pass on.  Leaping to the ground Giovanni seized his arm and held him tightly.  Then Del Ferice broke down.

“You will not give me up—­for the love of Christ!” he whined.  “Oh, if you have any pity—­let me go—­I never meant to harm you—­”

“Look here,” said Giovanni.  “I would just as soon give you up to the Holy Office as not; but my wife asked me to save you—­”

“God bless her!  Oh, the saints bless her!  God render her kindness!” blubbered Del Ferice, who, between fear and exhaustion, was by this time half idiotic.

“Silence!” said Giovanni, sternly.  “You may thank her if you ever have a chance.  Come with me quietly.  I will send one of the workmen round the hill with you.  You must sleep at Trevi, and then get over the Serra as best you can.”  He ran his arm through the bridle of his horse and walked by his enemy’s side.

“You will not give me up,” moaned the wretched man.  “For the love of heaven do not betray me—­I have come so far—­I am so tired.”

“The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care,” returned Giovanni.  “I will not.  I give you my word that I will send you safely on, if you will stop this whining and behave like a man.”