The road gradually ascended, but this was only perceptible from the increasing beauty of the prospect which became more and more extensive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, gleaming in the sun like a brilliant sheet of silver; nearer, a small stream, whose name, after twenty-two centuries, still recalls the memorable battle that ensanguined its waters, wound through the plain where it was fought.[199] It is stated in history that, during that famous day, neither the Romans nor Hannibal’s soldiers noticed the earthquake which rocked the ground beneath their feet. It might have trembled anew, and our poor Fleurange would perhaps have been equally insensible, so greatly absorbed was she in a struggle of another kind—between her will to do right and the violent inclinations of her heart.
She was now completely alone for the first time for a long period, and seemed to have regained her liberty of thought. Freed from the necessity of struggling against the softening emotions that would have enfeebled her courage, she could now yield without restraint to the pleasure of living over the past six months of her life. She leaned her weary head back, closed her eyes, and allowed her memory to recall all those dear but vain remembrances. She saw him once more whom she never expected to behold again; she listened anew to the voice she would hear no more; she allowed herself to tell him all she had so often repressed. It was a prolonged and dangerous dream, followed by a sorrowful awakening. And it profoundly troubled the peace of her soul, which, with her firmness, she had preserved only by a constant effort during the period of trial her youth had just passed through. “And it is ended!—ended!” she exclaimed, with a cry almost of despair, hiding her face in her hands. “I shall never behold him again!”
Suddenly she heard the mellow sound of a distant bell which revived a whole world of past impressions. She hastily raised her head and looked around. She was passing through a grove of acacias that shaded the winding road. Beyond were some large pines and a few rustic dwellings. Passing by one of them, she heard a voice exclaim, “Evviva la Signorina!”—and further on: “La Madonna vi accompagna!” Shortly after she passed under a half-ruined arcade which looked like a vestige of antiquity. The bell was still ringing, but its sound was more distinct, for they were approaching the chapel.
“What, so soon!” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have we arrived?”
At the end of the avenue the carriage turned to the left, passed by the chapel, and at length stopped before a small gate-way of sculptured stone, surmounted by a statue of our Saviour, at whose feet the following words in relief were distinctly legible: Venite ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis, et ego reficiam vos.
Fleurange sprang from the carriage and eagerly rang. The gate opened: a soft expression of surprise and welcome greeted her. She replied with a smile, but did not stop, for at the farther end of the cloister she perceived her whom she sought.
It was noon: the children were just being dismissed from school, and Madre Maddalena stood looking at them as they went out, now and then saying some kind word. Fleurange, suddenly appearing in their midst, threw the little procession into disorder. Mother Maddalena, astonished, looked reprovingly towards the person who had unexpectedly disturbed the order of the time and place. She looked again—again hesitated—then at length her arms opened with an exclamation of joy:
“Fior angela mia!—Dear lamb returned to the fold!”
And the returned wanderer, falling into the arms of her mother, forgot in a moment all the fatigue, the dangers, the sufferings she had endured on the way, and all the thorns that had left their traces on her wounded feet.