One day late in November Olì went to Nuoro for the feast of Le Grazie. When she came back she had a quarrel with Aunt Grathia. Indeed latterly she had been quarrelling with every one and slapping the children. Anania heard her crying the whole night through, and though she had beaten him yesterday he was full of pity. He would have liked to say-- "Never mind, mother dear. Zuanne says if he was like me that he'd go to Nuoro the moment he was grown up and find his father and make him come to see us. But I am ready to go before I'm grown up. Let me go, dear mother!" But he dared not utter a word. It was still night when Olì rose, went to the kitchen, came back, went down a second time, returned with a bundle. "Get up!" she bade the child. She helped him to dress; then put a chain round his neck from which hung a little bag of green brocade strongly sewn.[9] "What's in it?" asked the child, fingering the little packet. "It's a _ricetta_, a receipt which will bring you good fortune. An old monk I met on the road gave it to me. Mind you always wear it on your chest, next your skin. Don't ever lose it." "What was the monk like? Had he a long beard? Had he a stick?" "Yes, a beard and a stick." "Was it _he_?" "Who?" "The Lord Jesus." "Perhaps!" said Olì. "Well, promise you'll never lose the little bag. Swear it." "I swear on my conscience," said Anania, much impressed. "Is the chain strong?" "Very strong." Olì took the bundle, clasped the child's hand in hers, and led him to the kitchen. There she gave him a bowl of coffee and a piece of bread. Then she threw an old sack over his shoulders and they went out. It was dawn. The cold was intense. Fog filled the valley and hid the immense cloister of mountains. Here and there a snow-dad summit emerged like a silvery cloud. Monte Spada, a huge block of bronze, now and then appeared for a moment through the moving veil of vapour. Anania and his mother crossed the deserted street and stepped out into the mist. They began to descend the high road which went down lower and lower into a distance full of mystery. Anania's little heart beat; for the grey, damp road, watched over by the outermost houses of Fonni, whose scaled roofs seemed black wings plucked of their feathers, this road which continuously descended towards an unknown, cloud-filled abyss--was the road to Nuoro. Mother and son walked fast. The boy often had to run, but he did not tire. He was used to running, and the lower they descended the more excited he felt, hot and eager as a bird. More than once he asked-- "Where are we going, mother?"