Alcide stood on the threshold, and watched the form of the horseman vanishing into the blackness under the trees. He made a gesture as of lifting an imaginary gun to his shoulder and pointing it. “Eh?” he said to his brother Lucio. Lucio, who was of a slower and weaker temperament, scratched his head. “I don’t say no,” he answered; “but it’s always a dangerous game to play at, ’Cide.” “Pooh!” said Alcide. “The woods are good friends; they never prate. But one can wait. Perhaps we shall get something out of him to-morrow.” “Anyhow, he is gone now,” said Lucio, as the sound of the horse’s hoofs grew faint on the wet moss of the forest road. The young steward rode through them this dark night very slowly, for the road was bad, and his horse, though well used to such work, felt each step carefully, and sometimes whinnied with fear as an owl flew past or a pole-cat rushed across the path. But even in this cautious passage through the almost impenetrable gloom he nearly trampled on a woman who stood in his way and cried to him to stop. He checked his horse, just in time to avoid collision, and the animal’s nostrils brushed the woman’s head. He could see nothing of her except the shine of two great eyes as he struck a match in front of her. “It is I, Muriella!” she said quickly. “Is he dead, sir?” “Yes; your grandfather is dead,” he answered gravely, “and he died alone and unaided as I would not let a sick steer die.” “Gone without the holy oil? Gone without shrive?--O Christ, help us!” she said in a voice of awe. “He died as I would not let a sick steer die,” repeated the rider. “I had been to fetch the vicar of San Vitale,” she added; “’twas the nearest; but he was away, and the sacristan said he would not be back for two days.” “Could you not have gone by preference for a doctor?” “No; there is nobody who would pay, and, besides, one must go to Ronciglione, twenty-five miles away, and the doctor there would refuse, for he has nought to do with us. To be sure, there is an apothecary at San Vitale, but he would have to be paid, and who amongst us could pay him?” “This is shocking! A whole commune without medical aid!” “I am more sorry he is gone unshriven,” she said with regret. “But perhaps--up yonder--somebody will see to it, and say a good word for him. I did what I could, sir; those above must see to the rest.” The young man sighed: the nothingness, the blankness, the horror of death weighed on him. He saw that she had some vague, shapeless hope which solaced her; and he forbore to disturb it. She put her hand on the saddle-bow and reached up nearer to him. “Don’t ride alone at night like this,” she whispered. “Knives are sharp amongst us if guns be rusty.” “I am armed,” he answered briefly. He felt rather than saw that she gave an impatient gesture.