After a time they rode onward, and he, too, cautiously pursued his solitary path.
Evening had come.
The rose had faded from the sky; but the horizon was flooded with pale gold, in which shone the pellucid evening star. The air was filled with the sweet chimes of innumerable bells.
A group of towers rising above the distant hills cut sharply into the glory of the sky.
Yonder lay Viterbo amidst her encircling walls: thence those carolling chimes, that so strangely stirred him, were singing their message of peace.
His eyes were fixed afar.
Would he turn back?—
The west was smoking with golden vapors. The forests receding on either hand revealed the hills and summits of the pontifical city. The old Longobard walls curved away on each hand, for a long distance, high and grim, with battlements and towers, bare and menacing.
For a moment Francesco paused; his eyes in the tracks of the sinking sun, his lips tightly set, the nails of his hands driven into his own flesh.
Then with head high and erect, never a muscle betraying the anguish of his soul, he rode into the gates of Viterbo.