'Leone? What was he?'
'He was a dog.'
'Is that all you have had to love?'
'I had a woman; she was very old. She died in the summer of last year.'
'You loved her very much, I think, by the sound of your voice; there are tears in it.'
'She was very good.'
'Tell me what is your name?'
'I am called Musa. And yours?'
'I am Luitbrand d'Este.'
'That is a very long, fine name. It is not of Maremma—at least I think not.'
'No, it is not; it is of the north, of the Lombard plains, where the snow lies long in winter-time, and the rivers rage and outspread themselves till the land is drowned, and men and their cattle and their cities are drowned too.'
'You should not speak any more. You are weak. I will go and get a brazier and light you a fire, and I will make you some herb-tea that will be good for your pain. Lie and sleep if you can. It is such a fair day without. It is a pity you cannot see it.'
'I should not dare to look out into the
