It was only in the quail season, when there were poachers about, during April, May, and early June, that Ercole lived in his straw hut, a little way from the cottage.  He spent the rest of the year in a small stone house that stood on a knoll in sight of Ardea, high enough to be tolerably safe from the deadly Campagna fever.  Every other day an old woman from the village brought him a copper conca full of water; once a month she came and washed for him.  When he needed supplies he went to Ardea for them himself.  His dwelling was of elementary simplicity, consisting of two rooms, one above the other, with grated windows and heavy shutters.  In the lower one he cooked and ate, in the upper chamber he slept and kept his few belongings, which included a plentiful supply of ammunition, his Sunday clothes, his linen, and his papers.  The latter consisted of a copy of his certificate of birth, his old military pass-book, showing that he had served his time in an infantry regiment, had been called in for six weeks’ drill in the reserve, had been a number of years in the second reserve, and had finally been discharged from all military service.  This booklet serves an Italian throughout life as a certificate of identity, and is necessary in order to obtain a passport to leave the country.  Ercole kept his, with two or three other yellow papers, tied up in an old red cotton handkerchief in the bottom of the chest that held his clothes.

When he got home after his visit to Padre Francesco he took the package out, untied the handkerchief, and looked through all the papers, one by one, sitting by the grated window in the twilight.  He could read, and had once been able to write more or less intelligibly, and he knew by heart the contents of the paper he wanted, though he had not unfolded it for years.  He now read it carefully, and held it some time open in his hand before he put it back with the rest.  He held it so long, while he looked out of his grated window, that at last he could see the little lights twinkling here and there in the windows of Ardea, and it was almost dark in the room.  Nino grew restless, and laid his grim head on Ercole’s knee, and his bloodshot eyes began to glow in the dark like coals.  Then Ercole moved at last.

“Ugly animal, do you wish me well?” he asked, rubbing the dog’s head with his knotty hand.  “If you are good, you shall go on a journey with me.”

Nino’s body moved in a way which showed that he would have wagged his tail if he had possessed one, and he uttered a strange gurgling growl of satisfaction.

The next morning, the old woman came before sunrise with water.

“You need not bring any more, till I let you know,” Ercole said.  “I am going away on business for a few days, and I shall shut up the house.”

“For anything that is in it, you might leave the door open,” grumbled the hag, who was of a sour temper.  “Give me my pay before you go.”

“You fear that I am going to America,” retorted Ercole, producing an old sheepskin purse from the inside of his waistcoat.  “Here is your money.  Four trips, four pennies.  Count them and go in peace.”