When Mass was over, old Alaida crept over the mouldy mosaics timidly to his side, and kneeled down on the stones.
"Most reverend," she whispered, "'twas not my fault. I slept heavily; she must have unlocked the door, for it was undone at dawn; her bed is empty, she has not returned."
"You speak of Nerina?"
"Of Nerina, reverence. I did all I could. It was not my fault. She was like a hawk in a cage."
"I am grieved," he said; and he thought: "Is it Adone?"
He feared so.
"Is she not at the Terra Vergine?" he asked. Alaida shook her head.
"No, reverend sir. I sent my grandchild to ask there. Gianna has not seen her, and says the girl would never dare to go near Clelia Alba."
"I am grieved," said Don Silverio again.
He did not blame the old woman, as who, he thought, blames one who could not tame an eaglet?