“Pretty sharp practice that,” he said, pulling a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. “Have they been worrying you much lately, Michele?”
“They've been worse than mosquitos in August. There's no getting a minute's peace; wherever one goes, there's always a spy hanging about. Even right up in the hills, where they used to be so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming in bands of three or four—haven't they, Gino? That's why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino in the town.”
“Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town is always full of spies.”
“Brisighella just now is a capital place. It's swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country.”
“But it's not on the way to anywhere.”
“It's not far out of the way to Rome, and many of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear Mass there.”
“I d-d-didn't know there was anything special in Brisighella.”
“There's the Cardinal. Don't you remember his going to Florence to preach last December? It's that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he made a great sensation.”
“I dare say; I don't go to hear sermons.”
“Well, he has the reputation of being a saint, you see.”