The air, too, which gives 'distemper if not death' to the stranger, began to work its evil way on him. He began to lose strength, to feel chilly, to have a touch of fever; the burning suns on the rank soil began to pour their poison into his northern blood. She met him on the twelfth day of his stay at Telamone as she came home towards sunset with wild strawberries and blackberries as her afternoon's gleaning.
She looked at him and smiled a little.
'Maremma makes you ill,' she said with unconcealed contentment; 'you are very unwise to stay in it. The sun is always angry with strangers. Why do you not go away?'
'Dear, you know very well why I stay,' said Sanctis gently and with humility. 'I cannot bear to leave you here, all alone, in so utter a solitude, in so wild a life.'
She frowned impatiently.
'That is not for you to think about; myself I would not live elsewhere. It is foolish of you to stay on at Telamone, You may stay twelve weeks, twelve months, twelve years, and you will not make me live in any other way than I do. You will only lose your own health.'
