"How long have you been here?" she asked.
"Ten years, Excellency," he replied.
He was just twelve years of age and both his parents were dead.
"Poor little fellow!" said Roma, and before David Rossi could prevent her she was emptying her purse into the boy's hand.
They set off at a trot, and for some time they did not exchange a word. The sun was sinking and the golden day was dying down. Over the broad swell of the Campagna, treeless, houseless, a dull haze was creeping like a shroud, and the long knotted grass was swept by the chill breath of evening. Nothing broke the wide silence of the desolate space except the lowing of cattle, the bleat of sheep that were moving in masses like the woolly waves of a sea, the bark of big white dogs, the shouts of cowherds carrying long staves, and of shepherds riding on shaggy ponies. Here and there were wretched straw huts, with groups of fever-stricken people crouching over the embers of miserable fires, and here and there were dirty pothouses, which alternated with wooden crosses of the Christ and grass-covered shrines of the Madonna.
The rhythm of the saddles ceased and the horses walked.
"Was that the place where you were brought up?" said Roma.
"Yes."
"And those were the people who sold you into slavery, so to speak?"
"Yes."