"A brother pilgrim," replied the man, "one who has toiled up these steep rocks, till his limbs will scarcely bear him further. Would that you would take compassion on him, and give him a ride."
However compassionate Vivaldi might be to the sufferings of others, this was not a moment when he could indulge his disposition, without endangering the safety of Ellena; and he even fancied the stranger spoke in a voice of dissimulation. His suspicions strengthened when the traveller, not repulsed by a refusal, enquired the way he was going, and proposed to join his party; "For these mountains, they say, are infested with banditti," he added, "and a large company is less likely to be attacked than a small one."
"If you are so very weary, my friend," said Vivaldi, "how is it possible you can keep pace with our horses? Though I acknowledge you have done wonders in overtaking them."
"The fear of these banditti," replied the stranger, "urged us on."
"You have nothing to apprehend from robbers," said Vivaldi, "if you will only moderate your pace; for a large company of pilgrims are on the road, who will soon overtake you."
He then put an end to the conversation, by clapping spurs to his horse, and the strangers were soon left far behind. The inconsistency of their complaints with their ability, and the whole of their manner, were serious subjects of alarm to the fugitives; but when they had lost sight of them, they lost also their apprehensions; and having, at length, emerged from the pass, they quitted the high road to Naples, and struck into a solitary one that led westward towards Aquila.
CHAPTER II.
"Thus sang th' unletter'd swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went forth with sandals gray.
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay."—
Milton.