"Many thanks," said George, "but my supper already awaits me. I will not, however, interfere with my young guide. Show me the ruins, Giuseppe, and I will trouble you no further."
The boy moved on towards what were indeed ruins, or rather the vestige of such.
Here a misshapen stone--there a shattered column--decaying walls, overgrown with nettles--arches and caves, choked up with rank vegetation--bespoke remains unheeded, and but rarely visited.
George threw the boy a piece of silver--heard his repeated cautions as to his way to Storta--and wished him good night, as he hurried back to the cottage.
George Delmé sat on the shaft of a broken pillar, his face almost buried in his hands, as he looked around him on a scene once so famous.
But with him classic feelings were not upper-most. The widowed heart mourned its loneliness; and in that calm hour found the full relief of tears.
The mourner rose, and turned his face homeward, slowly--sadly--but resignedly.
The heavens had become more overcast--and clouds occasionally were hiding the moon.
It was with some difficulty that George avoided the pieces of rock which obstructed the path.
The road seemed longer, and wilder, than he had previously thought it.