The post was a rare thing in these districts; scarcely anyone, in an area of a hundred miles square, could read, still less write. Once in half a year Caterina received news from a son who was a trader in Brazil, and another son who was a soldier in Eritrea, and Fausto had occasional correspondence concerning stallions or brood mares to be bought or sold, or bulls and rams to be had for the hiring, but these were very rarely; business was done on horseback and by word of mouth in these districts; and to Cyrille himself no single message had ever come since he had first entered the shadows of Le Selve. Absolute silence had fallen between him and his own land and his own people; he hoped that they believed him dead. The Gandolfo had promised him secrecy as to his existence and employment, and the most that he could hope for was that he might be allowed to remain in the poor substitute for resignation which is to be obtained from constant occupation and undisturbed work. His mother had been in her grave some years. There was no one living, he thought bitterly, who loved him well enough to endeavour to learn his fate. His family, doubtless, and all those who had once formed his world, thought him dead, and better dead, in some nameless foreign grave. Therefore his heart stood still with surprise and emotion as he returned this day from his usual rounds, and was met by Caterina, who cried to him: “The post-boy has been here, sir; the post from Ronciglione; dead beat he was, and glad enough of bit and sup; he brought a letter for you; ’tis on your table in your chamber.” He ascended the staircase with beating pulse, and noticed not that the curious good-will of Caterina brought her up after him and kept her at the doorway. There was a large square envelope lying on the table, stamped with the postmarks of his native land, and sealed with a cypher which he knew. He tore it open. All it contained was a photograph of a woman’s head and shoulders; a likeness of the face which was always in his dreams by night and by day. Under the portrait was written: “_Je seraià Rome en hiver._ “_Marie._” It was to him as though heaven had opened. His limbs shook as with palsy, his breath came in deep-drawn sobs; he pressed the portrait to his lips and to his heart. He was no more alone. He was no more without a future. He did not ask or care how she had found his refuge or learned his fate, how she had traced him, what she knew, what they could be or could not be to each other; it was enough that she remembered; that she was faithful; that in a few months she would be near him there, where the golden rays of the cross sparkled in the soft azure of summer eves above Rome. It was an ecstasy so great, so unlooked for, so overwhelming, that it utterly unmanned him; he fell on his knees and wept. Caterina, looking on from the entrance, closed the door softly, and went down the stairs.