But my heart was very heavy as I sped on through the streets, instinctively making my way to the cathedral.
It was the second week in March, and the spring was full upon us. The grass in the piazza smelt of clover, and here and there on the brown hills was the flush of blossoming peach or the snow of flowering almonds.
In the soft light of the morning, cathedral, tower, and baptistery seemed steeped in a divine calm. Their beauty filled me with a great sadness. They were my friends; I had grown to love them, and now I was leaving them, perhaps for ever.
Pacing up and down, and round about, I tried to fix my thoughts on my plans, to consider with calmness my course of action. But this was the upshot of all my endeavours, the one ridiculous irrelevant conclusion at which I could arrive—"He is certainly not engaged to Costanza."
As I came round by the main door of the cathedral for perhaps the twentieth time, I saw Andrea walking across the grass towards me.
A week ago, I had never seen his face; now as I watched him advancing in the sunlight, it seemed that I had known him all my life. Never was figure more familiar, never presence more reassuring, than that of this stranger. The sight of him neither disturbed nor astonished me; now that he was here, his coming seemed inevitable, part of the natural order of things.
"Ah, I have found you," he said quietly, and we turned together and strolled towards the Campo Santo.
"Do you often come here?" He stopped and looked at me dreamily.
"Often, often. It is all so beautiful and so sad."
"It is very sad."