"But the father of Martino," said Margaret, "what became of him?"
"An old story," she answered; "he had forsaken her three or four weeks before the boy was born. He was a fine, handsome signore, and she worshiped him. But what then? Young signori cannot trouble themselves about girls. Why should they? Girls are too plentiful. He went off one fine day, and nobody ever saw him again."
"But did no one try to find him on account of his child?" asked Margaret.
"Once," said the woman, "about six years after, a strange Englishman came here in the winter, and made inquiries, and saw the boy. But he went away again, and no more was heard of him. Chiara brought the boy up to be her servant. Her servant? Her slave! His life was worse than a dog's. We are poor here, signora, but Martino is the poorest creature of us all. He never had as much as he could eat; not once in his life. Old Chiara is a skinflint."
The procession was out of sight, but the monotonous chant droned by thousands of voices came plainly to their ears. Margaret listened to the strange sound, with eyes dim with tears for the poor fellow, whose life was so desolate and hard.
"Will the lady wish to see the grave of the pretty English girl?" asked the woman, with an eye to a possible gratuity. "It is not far off in the cemetery, and we shall be there before the procession passes."
"I will go," said Margaret in a pitying voice. "Dorothy, stay and bring Philip to me."
The murmur of the chanted prayers filled the quiet air as they passed down a side lane toward the cemetery, broken only by the clashing of the bells and the firing of cannon at the moment when the Host was elevated. This triumphal burst of noisy sound came as they passed through the gates of the neglected burial ground, and Margaret's guide fell down on her knees and waited until the chant was renewed. Then she led the way to the corner, apart from the other graves, and somewhat more overgrown with weeds and nettles, where Sophy lay buried.
There was a rude cross at the head of the grave, made of two bits of wood nailed clumsily together; and round it lay an outline of white pebbles. To-day, a handful of blue gentians lay upon it. There was a pathetic sadness about these awkward efforts to care for the grave, as if some bungler had done his best to express his grief, and had scarcely known what to do. The tears fell fast from Margaret's eyes as she laid her hand reverently on the rough wood of the cross.
"Has that poor fellow done this?" she asked.