He started to his feet, clasping and wringing his hands in a mute impulse of prayer. Presently he sank back into his seat again, exhausted, and turned unseeing eyes upon the flying landscape, vaguely conscious of some connection between the misty Alps looming motionless there against the northern horizon and the thought that dominated him, looming motionless and torpid within his soul. From time to time the jolting of the train would rouse him from his stupor, suggesting the idea of a painful race, stimulating his heart to rush, to beat thus also. Sometimes he would close his eyes, the better to picture his arrival at home. Images would at once rise from his heart to his eyelids, but they were always changing, continually moving, and he could not hold them for more than a second. Now it was Luisa hastening towards him on the stairs; now the uncle holding out his arms to him from the door of the hall; now Dr. Aliprandi who was opening the door of the alcove-room to him, and saying: "She is better, she is better!" Now in the darkened room, filled with shadows, it was Maria herself who gazed at him with glassy, feverish eyes.
When he reached Vercelli, he felt as if he were a thousand miles from Turin, and once more awoke to a sense of reality. How should he get from Lugano to Oria? What route should he take? Should he go openly by the lake, showing himself at the Custom-House? And what if they would not allow him to proceed because his passport had not been stamped on leaving Italy as the law demanded? Or, worse still, what if a warrant of arrest be out against him on account of those papers taken from the doctor at Pellio? He had better keep to the hills. They might arrest him later, but with his knowledge of the neighbourhood, acquired on his many hunting expeditions in 1848, he was almost sure of reaching home. This wearisome task of planning and arranging absorbed his attention for some time, and kept him occupied until he had passed Arona, on the Lake Maggiore steamer. He had arranged to reach Lugano in the middle of the night. Would there be some one there to meet him? If there were no one there, perhaps he might hear something at the Fontana pharmacy, where the Valsolda people were in the habit of congregating. If God would only permit reassuring news to reach him at Lugano he would postpone decision as to his journey to Oria until the morrow. He therefore determined to make no plans before reaching Lugano, and he prayed fervently that the Almighty would allow this good news to reach him. The sky was overcast; the mountains had already assumed their sad autumnal tints; a thin mist hung over the lake; the bells of Meina were ringing; on the steamer there were but few passengers, and Franco's prayer died in his heart, stifled by a crushing sadness, while his eyes unconsciously followed a flock of white gulls, that were winging their flight towards the distant waters of Laveno, towards that hidden country where his soul was.
It was past seven when he reached Magadino. He climbed Monte Ceneri on foot, following the path that leads to the road-mender's house, took a carriage at Bironico and reached Lugano shortly after midnight. He alighted in the Piazza, near Café Terreni. The coffee-house was closed, the square was deserted and dark, and silence reigned; even the lake, which could be seen gently rising and falling in the gloom, was silent. Franco paused a moment on the shore, hoping that some one had come to meet him, and would presently appear. He could not see Valsolda, hidden behind Monte Brè, but that same water mirrored Oria, and slept in the boathouse at home. A wave of peace eased his heart somewhat; he felt he was among things familiar to him. Every human voice was hushed, but the great, dark hills spoke to him, Monte Caprino and the Zocca d'i Ment more than all, for they overlooked Oria. They spoke gently to him, suggesting comfort-bringing thoughts. Nineteen hours had passed since the telegram was sent. All danger might now be over.
As no one appeared he went to the Fontana pharmacy, and rang the bell. For many years he had known that most worthy, cordial, and honest man, Signor Carlo Fontana, who has now passed away with the world of long ago. Signor Carlo came to the window, and was greatly surprised to see Don Franco. He had no news from Oria. He had spent the last two days at Tesserete, and had returned only a few hours before, so could tell him nothing. His assistant had started for Bellinzona that evening. Franco thanked him and walked away in the direction of Villa Ciani, for he was now determined to go to Oria at once.
Two routes were open to him. He could either climb the Swiss slope of the Boglia from Pregassona, strike the heights of Bolla; cross the Pian Biscagno and the great beech wood, coming out at the venerable beech-tree of the Madonnina on the brow of the hill which slopes down into Lombardy, and then drop down on to Albogasio Superiore and Oria; or he could take the easy Gandria road, leading towards the lake, and then follow that treacherous and dangerous path which starts from Gandria, the last Swiss village, cuts along the face of the almost perpendicular cliff, crosses the frontier some hundred metres above the lake, runs on to the Origa farm, drops into the ravine of Val Malghera, rising once more to the Rooch farm, where it joins the paved way which passes above Niscicoree and finally leads down to Oria. The first route was much longer and far more difficult, but it afforded a better chance of eluding the vigilance of the guards at the frontier. On leaving the Fontana pharmacy Franco had been fully determined to go that way, but when, on reaching Cassarago, where the roads to Pregassona and to Gandria meet, he saw how near the point of Castagnola was, and reflected that it would take him less than half an hour to go from Castagnola to Gandria, and that another hour and a half would take him from Gandria to Oria, the idea of climbing the Boglia, of walking seven or eight hours, became intolerable to him. Besides, if he went by the Boglia he would arrive in the daytime, and this, of course, would jeopardise his safety. He turned his face resolutely towards Castagnola and Gandria. The sky was now completely overcast with heavy clouds. Beneath the great chestnut trees that line the road to Castagnola, he could not see where to set his feet, but how much worse it would have been in the great beech forest of the Boglia if Franco had chosen that route. It was just as dark in Castagnola, and worse in the labyrinth of narrow lanes at Gandria. After wandering backwards and forwards among these lanes for some time, always mistaking his way, Franco at last found himself on the path leading to the frontier, and stopped to rest. Before starting forward again in the impenetrable darkness, before braving the dangers of a difficult path, and of a meeting with the Austrian guards, and then facing another terrifying step, that of entering his house, of putting the first question, of listening to the first answer, he raised his heart to God, and concentrated all the powers of his mind upon a determination to be strong and calm.
Once more he started forward. Now he must give his whole attention to the path, in order not to fall or lose his way. The little fields of Gandria soon come to an end. Then wild tracts follow, that jut out over the lake, and are covered with a thick growth of low bushes; then come ravines with crumbling sides, that go tumbling straight downwards, and are half hidden by the bushes. In such places as these Franco was obliged to feel his way blindly, to cling first to one branch, then to another, plunging his face in among the leaves, that, at least, smelt of Valsolda, and dragging himself from bush to bush. He must explore the ground with his foot, trembling lest it give way beneath him, and seeking for traces of the path. The bundle he carried was small, but nevertheless it embarrassed him. The rustling of the foliage as he brushed past, irritated him; it seemed as if it must be heard a long way off, on the hills and on the lake, in the solemn hush of the night. Then he would stop and listen. He could hear only the distant thundering of the falls at Rescia, the hooting of owls in the woods over yonder, across the lake, and from time to time, far below, a sharp stroke on the water, for which he could not account. It took him quite an hour to reach the frontier. There, between the Valle del Confine and the Val Malghera, the forest had been recently cut down, and the rocky slope was bare. This enhanced both the danger of falling, and that of discovery. He crossed this tract very slowly, often pausing, sometimes crawling on hands and knees. Before reaching Oria he heard the faint dip of oars far below. He knew the customs-guards' boat sometimes passed the shore of Val Malghera at night. Surely these were the guards. Beneath the chestnut trees of Origa he breathed freely once more. There he was hidden, and could walk noiselessly on the grass. He descended the western slope of Val Malghera and climbed up the other side without encountering any obstacles. On approaching Rooch his heart beat furiously. Rooch is a sort of outpost of Oria. There the little path ends that he had so often followed with Luisa on mild winter afternoons, gathering violets and laurel leaves, and talking of the future. He remembered that the last time, they had had a discussion concerning the most desirable husband for Maria, and the qualities he must possess. Franco had hoped he would be a country gentleman, but Luisa had been in favour of a civil engineer.
Rooch is a little farmhouse perched above a few small fields which lie terraced against the hillside, and form a small, light clearing among the surrounding woods. The stable, a room above it, a small portico in front of the stable, a cistern under the portico—that is all. The little portico is just above the narrow paved way that passes some two or three metres below. It is only a few steps from the comb of the ravine of Val Malghera, to Rooch. Having reached the comb, Franco heard low voices in the farmhouse.
He paused and drawing aside, stretched himself, face downwards, upon the grass, beyond the path, and near a cluster of low chestnut trees. The voices became silent, but he heard a man's steps coming rapidly towards him; he lay quite still, holding his breath. The man stopped almost at his side, waited a moment, and then slowly retraced his steps, saying in a loud voice, with a foreign accent: "There is no one here, it must have been a fox."
The guards! A long silence followed, during which Franco did not dare to move. The guards once more began to talk, and he decided to crawl noiselessly backwards, to drop down into Val Malghera and pass behind and above the house. Slowly, very slowly he pulled off his boots. He was about to move when he heard two or three guards leave the farmhouse, talking as they came towards him. He heard one of them say: "Is no one going to stay here?" and another answered: "It is not necessary."
Four guards brushed past him without noticing him. They certainly had no suspicions, for they were talking unconcernedly. One was saying that a person may remain ten minutes under water without drowning; but another maintained that five minutes is long enough to cause death. The fourth passed him in silence, but hardly had he done so when he stopped. Franco shuddered upon hearing him strike a match. He lit his pipe, puffed at it two or three times, and then called out to his companions in a loud voice, for they had already gone some way down the slope of Val Malghera.