Although this apparition made me vaguely uneasy, I was relieved to find that I had not his death upon my conscience.  On the other hand, I felt no yearning of the bowels towards him, and did not propose to go one inch over the newly turned clods to bid him good-day.  Supported by my hoe, chin on hands, I watched him, tolerably sure that he would never mark me down.  I was as brown as the earth in which I delved, scarce distinguishable from it.  I had on my head an old felt hat of no shape at all; I had a cotton shirt open to the navel, and a pair of blue cotton drawers which failed me at the knees.  I was bleached and tanned again, stained and polished by the constant rub of weather and hard work—­a perfect contrast to my last appearance before him.  Then it had been my heart that was rent, not my garments; then my spirit was fretted and seamed, not my skin.  Then I had had a fine cloth coat and lace ruffles; but my soul was soiled and my honour in tatters.  The hand which shot him down had been covered in a scented glove; but pride had flaunted it upon me, naked and unashamed.  The contrast assured me, while it gave me confidence enough to watch my wily enemy.

He saw me, however—­he saw me and reined up his horse.  He beckoned me towards him in the way of free command which a mounted man assumes with peasants.  As it would have been more singular to stand than to obey, I went slowly over the furrows and saluted him, responding to his bluff “Buon di” with a “Servo suo.”  The shadow of my hat was now my only hope; but I felt his sharp eyes burn their way through that, and now I am sure that he recognised me at the first moment.  He pretended, however, that he had not, saving up, as I suppose, his acclamations to be the climax of the little drama he had schemed.  Addressing me as his “honest lad,” he asked his way to Fojano, with particulars of fords, bridle-tracks and such like.  This was a game of which I, at least, was soon weary; I never could play pretences.  I said, “I have told you what you want to know, Fra Palamone.  It is three good leagues to Fojano.  I hope you are sufficiently recovered of your wound to attempt it.”  At the same time I pushed up the brim of my hat, and looked him in the face.

He maintained his silly comedy for a little while longer, the old knave, staring at me as if I had been a ghost, muttering names, as if to recall mine.  Then with a glad shout of, “It is, it is my Francis of old!” he threw up his arms to Heaven and broke into doggerel—­

     “’Si, benedetta tu,
      O Maria, Madre di Gesu,
      Regina Coeli intemerata,
      Atque hominum Advocata!

“O what perils by land and sea,” he continued, “what racking of entrails!  What contumely, what anguish of hunger and thirst, have I not undergone for this—­for this—­for this!  Now I can say, Domine, nunc dimittis, with a full heart.  Now, indeed, is the crown of lilies set upon the life-work of wayworn, sad-browed Palamone!”