Last night about eleven, before the rain had begun, the two students were walking in Via Nazionale, at this hour almost empty, with broad shadows between the electric lamps. They were talking in the Sardinian dialect, and presently one of those nocturnal butterflies who flit over the pavements, accosted them in the same speech:-- "_Bonas tardas pizzocheddos_." She was tall, dark, with large, hollow eyes. The electric light gave a cadaverous pallor to her small face emerging from the fur collar of a light jacket. As when Marta Rosa had stopped him at Cagliari, Anania shuddered. He dragged Daga away who had answered the woman roughly. It was not the first time Anania had encountered such wandering phantasm in the lonely streets, and always he had felt a chill at his heart. Was it _she_? Could it be _she_? But this time--oh this time--the woman had spoken in Sardinian. She was a Sardinian. It might be _she_! Stretched on his bed after long hours of melancholy oppression Anania thought-- "I can't go on living like this. I must _know_. Oh to hear that she were dead! dead! But I will seek her. Did I not come to Rome for this? To-morrow--to-morrow! From the very day I arrived I have said that I And to-morrow comes and I do nothing. But what can I do? Where must I go? And supposing I do find her?" Ah! that was his dread. He must not even think of what might happen when he had found her! Then he thought: "Would it be a good plan to confide in Battista? Suppose I tell him I'm going out now to the Questura[15] to get information; what will he advise? I must confide in some one. I want counsel--help. I can endure this sad secret no longer. So many, many years I have borne its weight. I want to get free, to throw it off as one throws off an oppressive burden. I want to get free, to breathe. I must dislodge this gnawing worm. I shall be told I'm a fool. I shall be convinced. Well, so much the better if I am convinced. I shall be told to let it alone. What a horrible day this is! I feel as if I was in one of Dostoyevsky's novels, seeing a procession of grey and famished folk passing across the end of the room. The sky is lowering. Am I going asleep? I must get up and go about this business at once. Battista Daga!" he cried, rising on his elbow, "aren't you going out?" "No," roared the other. "Will you lend me your umbrella?" He hoped Battista would ask where he was going, but all his friend said was-- "Couldn't you do me the favour of buying an umbrella?" Anania sat up on his bed, put his lips to the screen, and said slowly-- "I've got to go to the Questura." Again he hoped a fraternal voice would ask his reason. His heart beat considering how he should explain. But Daga only asked from behind the screen, "Are you going to get the rain taken up?"