'What is your trouble?' he asked gently. 'Can anyone help you?'
She did not move at first, but a voice of pain came with slow accents from under the black shawl that fell over her face, almost to her knee.
'God alone can help the dead,' it answered.
'But you are alive, my child,' said Ippolito, bending down a little.
The covered head moved slowly from side to side, denying.
'Who are you, that speak of life?' asked the sorrowful young voice. 'Are you the Angel of the Resurrection? Go in peace, with Our Lady, for I am dead.'
Ippolito thought that she must be mad, and that it might be better to leave her alone. His brother and cousin had gone on, up the road, and were waiting for him at a little distance.
'May you find peace and comfort,' said the young priest, quietly, and he moved away.
But he turned to look back at her, for she seemed the saddest woman he had ever seen, and her voice was the saddest he had ever heard. Something in his own speech had stirred her a little, for when he looked again she had raised her head, and was lifting the black shawl so that she could see him. She was about to speak, and he stopped where he was, two paces from her, surprised by her extraordinary beauty and unnatural pallor.
'Who are you?' she asked slowly. 'You are a stranger.'