And as she sighed, her eyes discoursed to Francesco something that savored not of the Church.
The fat vagrant offered him the bottle, while her companion's eyes sent him a tentative offer of friendliness, half timid, half bold.
Francesco passed it by with a flash of the eyes to the horizon, and a straight setting of the chin.
After having parted from the two rowdies in the fantastic cloaks, the duke and Francesco continued upon their way.
"There is freedom only on the mountain-heights," the duke said, as they arrived at a crossing, marked by a huge stone cross. "If this truth ever dawns upon you, if ever your soul shrinks from the greed and hypocrisy of the world, if you tire of bloodshed in the name of the Cross and of villainy glorified by the name of Christ—the camp of the Duke of Spoleto will receive you, standing face to face with God alone."
With a hearty hand-shake they parted, and Francesco followed the road pointed out to him by his companion of the morning hours.
He had taken reluctant leave of the burly champion of a lost cause, whose very presence seemed to breathe the undefiled air of his great northern forests, undefiled by the trend of human feet, the echoes of human strife.
And as Francesco gave a parting look to the high hills with the glitter of their birch-trees, he suddenly experienced an unexplainable melting of his resentment against Ilaria.
Something that he could neither describe nor account for, came into his heart, a subtle emotion, that was like a faint perfume, or the sound of music from afar. He had hated her for her cold pride when he left his home; yet, into this tawny cloud of hate flashed the vivid streak of a sudden recollection.
Every faint zephyr reminded him of her charm; transfused itself into the mellow brilliancy of her beauty, and Francesco suddenly surprised himself by taking her part against himself.