Two days later, back in Siena, Giorgio dressed at dawn and went to say good-bye to Gaudenzia. She gazed steadfastly at him as if he had made the morning sunbeams slant westward for the day, as if he had made the grain she ate, and the air she breathed. "Do not have fear," he told her. "I return presto, pronto, subito. I return this night."
Already he felt better. The mere prospect that today he could unburden his worries was like strength in his blood. He filled Gaudenzia's hayrack and water pail. He stripped her stall of bedding and swept the floor. He brought in sheaves of bright straw and shook them and padded them and banked them around the walls.
A friendly groom came in as he was putting the fork away. The man was big and brawny with sad, red-rimmed eyes like a hound dog's. He clapped Giorgio on the back.
"Ah, Roma! Bella, bella Roma!" he sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward and kissing his fingertips. "My favorite of cities! You will see the catacombs and the Colosseum and the Castle of San Angelo. But why," he puzzled, "do you go now when the manifestation of the Palio already makes the air crackle?"
"I cannot explain. I must hurry. Soon my train leaves. Please, Signore, kindly do me the favor to look in on Gaudenzia twice before nightfall."
The seven o'clock train chugged out of the station at the exact stroke of seven. Giorgio, his hair combed so carefully the teeth marks showed, sat in a second-class compartment filled with soldiers sleeping. They paid him less attention than if he had been a fly. He was glad. He could read again the exciting note in his pocket.
"The Right Reverend Monsignor Tardini," it said, "will see you at the Vatican at twelve-thirty on Thursday next." And it was signed, "Angelina Ciambellotti, leader of work with children, Siena."
Having nothing to do, he read the few words again and admired the signature of this woman he hardly knew. The pen strokes were strong and sure. Did she ever worry about things, he wondered; or was her path laid out straight as a piece of string? Maybe working for orphans as she and the Monsignore did was like holding a compass in the hand; always you knew the way. He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, alongside the light race shoe of Gaudenzia which he was taking as a gift for the Monsignore. His fingers closed about it for comfort.
The soldiers were still sleeping, grunting and twitching as if they fought imaginary battles. Giorgio wished he could sleep, too, but he had never before been to Rome and he might miss the junction at Chiusi where he had to change to an express. When he finally reached it he was in a panic for fear he would get on the wrong train. He asked a dozen people to make sure.