Through several hamlets she passed, but not a dog was astir, until presently she descended a sharp hill, and below saw a few meagre lights of the half-hidden town of Borghetto—a little place dominated by a great ruined castle situated on the direct railway line between Firenze and Rome.
Half-way down the hill she slackened speed, her great head-lights glaring, until presently she pulled up at the roadside and, slowly descending, extinguished the lights so that they might not attract attention.
Then, leaving the car, she hurried forward along the road, for she was cramped and cold.
But scarcely had she gone fifty yards when a dark figure came out of the shadows to meet her, uttering her name.
“Is it you, Pietro?” she asked quickly.
“Si, signorina,” was the reassuring reply, in a voice which told that its owner was a contadino, and not a gentleman.
Next second they were standing together.
“I received your message, Pietro,” she said, “and I have kept the appointment, as you see.”
The man for a few minutes did not reply. In the half-light, for the moon was now struggling through the clouds, the fact was revealed that the peasant was about forty, one of that pleasant-faced, debonair type so frequently met with in Central Italy—a gay, careless fellow who might possibly be a noted person in the little village of Borghetto.
He had taken off his hat at Lola’s approach and stood bare-headed before her.