Noemi drew away from her embrace, amazed,
“What do you mean? Not he—! All this scene because it is not he?”
Jeanne again fell upon her neck.
“The monk who passed me, is not he,” she said sobbing; “it is the other man!”
“What other man?”
“The one who was following him, who went away with him!”
Noemi had not even noticed this person. With a convulsive laugh Jeanne nearly suffocated her in a close embrace.
CHAPTER III. A NIGHT OF STORMS
On his way down from the villa to the gate, Don Clemente asked himself with secret anxiety: “Did he recognise her, or not? And if he did, what impression did she make?” On reaching the gate he turned to him he had called Benedetto, and scrutinised his face closely—a fleshless, pallid, intellectual face, in which he read no sign of agitation. The eyes met his wonderingly, almost as if questioning: “Why do you look at me thus?” The monk said to himself: “Probably he did not recognise her, or he supposes me to be unaware of her arrival.” He passed his arm through his companion’s, holding him close, and in silence turned to the left towards the dark and noisy gorge of the Anio. When they had walked on a few paces under the trees which border the road, he said: “Do you not wish to question me about the meeting?” There was more tenderness in his tone than the commonplace words demanded. His companion answered: