CHAPTER I
"How light it is still!" said Don Vittorio Lante, after a long silence.
"Evening falls much later among the high mountains," suggested Lucio Sabini.
The great vault of the sky was ascending, as they were ascending, from the level of the Val Bregaglia; it passed over their heads and kept rising, as their eyes contemplated it quietly, amongst the steep mountain peaks, now quite green with trees and bushes, now bare and rugged; rising so immensely towards the horizon, as if they should not perceive its descending curve. It was the sky of an uncertain summer day that during the afternoon had been softly blue, veiled by transparent clouds, but now had become a very light grey, of great purity and clearness.
"It is eight o'clock," exclaimed Don Vittorio Lante, pursuing his quiet thoughts.
"Eight o'clock," affirmed Lucio Sabini slowly.
The bells of their horses tinkled faintly in their tranquil ascent; the torrent on their right, at times violent and covered with the foam whitening on its rocks, at times clear and narrow like a brook amidst green meadows, rumbled noisily and softly as it descended from the white and cold summits whither they were ascending, on its way to the warm and monotonous plains whence they had come.
"We shall not arrive before half-past eleven," said Vittorio Lante, in a low voice.