At that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, but for many a year afterwards the rough words rankled in his heart.  Giovanni was brutal for once; he longed to wring the fellow’s neck, or to give him up to Gouacho and the Zouaves.  The tones of Ugo’s voice reminded him of injuries not so old as to be yet forgotten.  But he smothered his wrath and strode on, having promised his wife to save the wretch, much against his will.  It was a quarter of an hour before they reached the works, the longest quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in his whole life.  Neither spoke a word.  Giovanni hailed a sturdy-looking fellow who was breaking stones by the roadside.

“Get up, Carluccio,” he said.  “This good monk has lost his way.  You must take him round the mountain, above Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show him the road to Trevi.  It is a long way, but the road is good enough after Ponza—­it is shorter than to go round by Saracinesca, and the good friar is in a hurry.”

Carluccio started up with alacrity.  He greatly preferred roaming about the hills to breaking stones, provided he was paid for it.  He picked up his torn jacket and threw it over one shoulder, setting his battered hat jauntily on his thick black curls.

“Give us a benediction, padre mio, and let us be off—­non e mica un passo—­it is a good walk to Trevi.”

Del Ferice hesitated.  He hardly knew what to do or say, and even if he had wished to speak he was scarcely able to control his voice.  Giovanni cut the situation short by turning on his heel and mounting his horse.  A moment later he was cantering up the road again, to the considerable astonishment of the labourers, who were accustomed to see him spend at least half an hour in examining the work done.  But Giovanni was in no humour to talk about roads.  He had spent a horrible quarter of an hour, between his desire to see Del Ferice punished and the promise he had given his wife to save him.  He felt so little sure of himself that he never once looked back, lest he should be tempted to send a second man to stop the fugitive and deliver him up to justice.  He ground his teeth together, and his heart was full of bitter curses as he rode up the hill, hardly daring to reflect upon what he had done.  That, in the eyes of the law, he had wittingly helped a traitor to escape, troubled his conscience little.  His instinct bade him destroy Del Ferice by giving him up, and he would have saved himself a vast deal of trouble if he had followed his impulse.  But the impulse really arose from a deep-rooted desire for revenge, which, having resisted, he regretted bitterly—­very much as Shakespeare’s murderer complained to his companion that the devil was at his elbow bidding him not murder the duke.  Giovanni spared his enemy solely to please his wife, and half-a-dozen words from her had produced a result which no consideration of mercy or pity could have brought about.

Corona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road to wait for him.  By an imperceptible nod, Giovanni informed his wife that Del Ferice was safe.