Giorgio wished he could make the day last forever. In riding, he and Gaudenzia fitted together as if some sculptor had molded them all of one piece. In walking, they were a team, enjoying the cool wind in their faces and the warm sun on their backs.
It was good to see the country again! The little checkerboard farms with rows of grapevines holding hands, and hills swelling away to the horizon, and cypress trees marching bold and black against the sky.
They met farmers with guns on their shoulders, and lean dogs nosing for game. And they saw oxen slow-footing as they turned over the clods of earth.
They saw strawstacks, layered golden and brown, like mocha tortes. At thought of the tortes Giorgio was suddenly hungry. Standing at the side of the road, one arm through the reins, he ate his bread and salami and watched Gaudenzia graze. He wondered how far into the distance she could see. He studied her purple-brown eyes, but all he saw in them was his own reflection.
The sun was slipping into the folds of the mountains when they reached the wild loveliness of the Maremma. Never had it seemed so boundless. To Giorgio it was not lonely looking at all. He bristled at the thought. To him the tangle of brush and brake was beautiful, and the wild birds more plentiful than anywhere, and the autumn weeds winking bright and yellow in the roughed-up land. He stopped at a small wayside shrine decorated with a bouquet of dahlias, and asked a blessing for his new responsibility.
As they took off again, he noticed that the mare had lifted one of the flowers from the shrine. He laughed to the wind and the echo rolled back to him.
At last, in the thickening twilight, they wound up the hill to the huddled houses of Monticello. He clucked to Gaudenzia, asking her to trot the last few meters home in triumph. Her hoofbeats alerted the whole village.