One hour went; another; then another. There was no sound. When yet another passed, and it was four of the clock, he said:
"He will not come to-night. No doubt they kept him late, and he was too tired. He will be here by sunrise."
He threw himself on his bed for a little time, and closed the door. But he left the lanthorns hanging outside; on the chance.
He slept little; he was up while it was still dark, and the robins were beginning their first twittering notes.
"He will be here to breakfast," he said to himself, and he left the table untouched, only opening the shutters so that when day came it should touch the rose at once and wake it up; it looked so drooping, as though it felt the cold.
Then he went and saw to his beasts and to his work.
The sun leapt up in the cold, broad, white skies. Signa did not come with it.
The light brightened. The day grew. Noon brought its hour of rest.
The table still stood unused. The rose-leaves had fallen in a little crimson pool upon it. Bruno sat down on the bench by the door, not having broken his fast.
"They are keeping him in the town," he thought. "He will come later."