Don Silverio rose with the dawn of day, and entered his church at
five of the clock. There were but a few women gathered in the gaunt,
dark vastness of the nave. The morning was hot, and the scent of buds
and blossoms and fresh-cut grass came in from the fields over the
broken walls and into the ancient houses.
When Mass was over, old Alaida crept over the mouldy mosaics timidly
to his side, and kneeled down on the stones.
"Most reverend," she whispered, "'twas not my fault. I slept heavily;
she must have unlocked the door, for it was undone at dawn; her bed
is empty, she has not returned."
"You speak of Nerina?"
"Of Nerina, reverence. I did all I could. It was not my fault. She
was like a hawk in a cage."
"I am grieved," he said; and he thought: "Is it Adone?"
He feared so.
"Is she not at the Terra Vergine?" he asked. Alaida shook her head.
"No, reverend sir. I sent my grandchild to ask there. Gianna has not
seen her, and says the girl would never dare to go near Clelia Alba."
"I am grieved," said Don Silverio again.
He did not blame the old woman, as who, he thought, blames one who
could not tame an eaglet?
He went back to the presbytery and broke his fast on a glass of
water, some bread, and some cresses from the river.
He had sent for Gianna. In half an hour she came, distressed and
frightened.
"Sir, I know not of her; I should not dare to harbour her, even in
the cattle-stall. Madonna Clelia would turn me adrift. When Madonna
Clelia has once spoken --"
"Adone is at home?"
"Alas! No, sir. He went out at nightfall; we have not seen him since.
He told me he went to a meeting of men at the Three Pines, at what
they call the Tomb of the Barbarian."
Don Silverio was silent.
"It is very grave," he said at last.
"Aye, sir, grave indeed," said Gianna. "Would that it were love
between them, sir. Love is sweet and wholesome and kind, but there is
no such thing in Adone's heart. There it is only, alas! Blackness and
fire and hatred, sir; bloodlust against those who mean ill to the
river."
"And his mother has lost all influence over him?"
"All, sir. She is no more to him now than a bent stick. Yet, months
ago, she gave him her pearls and her bracelets, and he sold them in a
distant town to buy weapons."
"Indeed? What madness!"
"How else could the men have been armed, sir?"
"Armed!" he repeated. "And of what use is it to arm? What use is it
for two hundred peasants to struggle against the whole forces of the
State? They will rot in prison; that is all that they will do."
"Maybe yes, sir. Maybe no," said the old woman, with the obstinacy of
ignorance. "Some one must begin. They have no right to take the water
away, sir; no more right than to take the breast from the babe."
Then, afraid of having said so much, she dropped her curtsey and went
out into the street. But in another moment she came back into the
study with a scared, blanched face, in which the wrinkles were
scarred deep like furrows in a field.
"Sir -- sir!" she gasped, "there are the soldiery amongst us."
Don Silverio rose in haste, put the little dog on his armchair,
closed the door of his study, and went down the narrow stone passage
which parted his bookroom from the entrance. The lofty doorway showed
him the stones of the familiar street, a buttress of his church, a
great branch of one of the self-sown ilex-trees, the glitter of the
arms and the white leather of the cross belts of a sentinel. The
shrill lamentations of the women seemed to rend the sunny air. He
shuddered as he heard. Coming up the street farther off were half a
troop of carabineers and a score of dragoons; the swords of the
latter were drawn, the former had their carbines levelled. The
villagers, screaming with terror, were closing their doors and
shutters in frantic haste; the door of the presbytery alone remained
open. Don Silverio went into the middle of the road and addressed the
officer who headed the carabineers.
"May I ask to what my parish owes this visit?"
"We owe no answer to you, reverend sir," said the lieutenant.
The people were sobbing hysterically, catching their children in
their arms, calling to the Holy Mother to save them, kneeling down on
the sharp stones in the dust. Their priest felt ashamed of them.
"My people," he called to them, "do not be afraid. Do not hide
yourselves. Do not kneel to these troopers. You have done no wrong."
"I forbid you to address the crowd," said the officer. "Get you back
into your house."
"What is my offence?"
"You will learn in good time," said the commandant. "Get you into
your presbytery."
"My place is with my people."
The officer, impatient, struck him on the chest with the pommel of
his sword.
Two carabineers thrust him back into the passage.
"No law justifies your conduct," he said coldly, "or authorises you
to sever me from my flock."
"The sabre is law here," said the lieutenant in command.
"It is the only law known anywhere in this kingdom," said Don
Silverio.
"Arrest him," said the officer. "He is creating disorder."
The carabineers drove him into his study, and a brigadier began to
ransack his papers and drawers.
He said nothing; the seizure of his manuscripts and documents was
indifferent to him, for there was nothing he had ever written which
would not bear the fullest light. But the insolent and arbitrary act
moved him to keen anxiety, because it showed that the military men
had licence to do their worst, at their will, and his anguish of
apprehension was for Adone. He could only hope and pray that Adone
had returned, and might be found tranquilly at work in the fields of
the Terra Vergine. But his fears were great. Unless more soldiery
were patrolling the district in all directions it was little likely,
he thought, that these men would conduct themselves thus in Ruscino;
he had no doubt that it was a concerted movement, directed by the
Prefect, and the General commanding the garrisons of the province,
and intended to net in one haul the malcontents of the Valdedera.
From his study there was no view upon the street; he could hear the
wailing of women and screaming of children from the now closed
houses: that was all.
"What is it your men do to my people?" he said sternly.
The brigadier did not reply; he went on throwing papers into a trunk.
"Where is your warrant for this search? We are not in a state of
siege?" asked Don Silverio.
The man, with a significant gesture, drew his sabre up half way out
of its sheath; then let it fall again with a clash. He vouchsafed no
other answer.
Some women's faces pressed in at the grating of the window which
looked on the little garden, scared, blanched, horrified, the white
head, and sunburnt features of Gianna foremost.
"Reverendissimo!" they screamed as with one voice. "They are bringing
the lads in from the moors."