She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put one arm across her face. He waited—then, approaching his lips to her ear, “Let us go,” he whispered.
“Never—never from here,” she cried out, flinging her arms above her head.
He stooped over her, and her raised arms fell upon his shoulders. He lifted her up, steadied himself and began to walk, looking straight before him.
“What are you doing?” she asked feebly.
“I am escaping from my enemies,” he said, never once glancing at his light burden.
“With me?” she sighed helplessly.
“Never without you,” he said. “You are my strength.”
He pressed her close to him. His face was grave and his footsteps steady. The conflagrations bursting out in the ruins of destroyed villages dotted the plain with red fires; and the sounds of distant lamentations, the cries of “Misericordia! Misericordia!” made a desolate murmur in his ears. He walked on, solemn and collected, as if carrying something holy, fragile and precious.
The earth rocked at times under his feet.