"Hey, there!" cried the old man to a pedestrian, who was painfully walking in the suffocating dust along the curbstone. "Hey, there, Aligi!"
He turned towards his guests, adding with commiseration:
"He's a good Christian, a man of hereabouts. He's going to carry his vow. He is convalescent. Do you see, signora, how winded he is? Will you let him ride on the front seat?"
"Yes, yes. Stop, stop!" said Hippolyte, affected.
The carriage stopped.
"Run, Aligi! The gentlefolk are kind to you. Come, get up!"
The good Christian approached. He was gasping, bent over his stick, covered with dust, bathed in perspiration, dazed by the sun. A collar of reddish beard surrounded his chin from one ear to the other, and framed his face dotted with freckles; locks of reddish hair emerged from under his hat, sticking to the forehead and temples; his hollow eyes, converging towards the base of the nose, of no precise color, recalled those of epileptics. Gasping and hoarsely, he said:
"Thanks! God will reward you. May the Madonna protect you! But I can't ride."
He held in his right hand an object wrapped in a white handkerchief.
"Is that your offering?" asked Colas. "Let us see."