The walk before Paolina, when she had passed the city gate, was about two miles or rather more.  So that had La Bianca taken a few less minutes to put the finishing touches to the charming morning toilette which replaced the gorgeous Venetian costume she had taken off, the bagarino which carried her and Ludovico would infallibly have overtaken the young artist.  As it was, however, having more than half-an-hour’s start of it, she reached the church before they came within sight of it.

Little Paolina had felt rather nervous when first stepping into the cool fresh morning air from the door of the lodging she occupied.  But the street was utterly empty, and she took courage.  The first human beings she saw on her way were the octroi officers at the gate.  They sat apparently half asleep at the doorway of their den, by the side of the city gate, wrapped in huge cloaks; and took not even so much heed of her as to say “Good morning.”

The long bit of straight flat road outside the gate was equally deserted; and Paolina, braced by the morning air, stepped out vigorously, and began to enjoy her walk.

There is little enough, however, in the country through which she was passing to delight the eye.  The fields in the immediate neighbourhood of the city are cultivated, and not devoid of trees.  But the cheerfulness thence arising does not last long.  Very soon the trees cease, and there are no more hedge-rows.  Large flat fields, imperfectly covered with coarse rank grass, and divided by the numerous branches of streams, all more or less diked to save the land from complete inundation, succeed.  The road is a causeway raised above the level of the surrounding district; and presently a huge lofty bank is seen traversing the desolate scene for miles, and stretching away towards the shore of the neighbouring Adriatic.  This is the dike which contains the sulkily torpid but yet dangerous Montone.

Gradually, as the traveller proceeds, the scene grows worse and worse.  Soon the only kind of cultivation to be seen from the road consists of rice-grounds, looking like—­what in truth they are—­ poisonous swamps.  Then come swamps pure and simple, too bad even to be turned into rice grounds,—­or rather simply swamps impure; for a stench at most times of the year comes from them, like a warning of their pestilential nature, and their unfitness for the sojourn of man.  A few shaggy, wild-looking cattle may be seen wandering over the flat waste, muddy to the shoulders from wading in the soft swamps.  A scene of more utter desolation it is hardly possible to meet with in such close neighbourhood to a living city.

Paolina shivered, and drew her little grey cloak more closely around her shoulders; not from cold, though a bleak wind was blowing across the marshes.  She was warmed by walking; but the aspect of the scene before her almost frightened the Venetian girl by the savagery of its desolation.