He had never
removed them. He simply placed them on one side upon a stone, that they
might not be stepped on, that was all. Neither had he ever tried to
discover what hand laid them there. Surely this tiny wild rose had
fallen from the same hand. He did not raise his head, but he understood
that even if he did not lift the rose, or make any movement towards it,
he must, nevertheless, leave the spot. He tried to rise, but his limbs
could, as yet, hardly support him, and he tarried a moment before moving
away. The thunder rumbled again louder and longer. A small door was
pushed open, and a young girl, dressed in black, looked out. She was
fair, and as white as wax; her blue eyes were full of despair and
of tears. Benedetto could not help turning his face towards her. He
recognised the village schoolmistress, whom he had once seen for a
moment at the priest's house. He was already moving away without
greeting her, when she moaned softly: "Hear me!" Stepping back into the
passage she fell upon her knees, stretched out beseeching hands to him,
and dropped her head upon her breast.
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