"Shall we go back by Ponte Molle, or by the way we went the last day?" asked Antonio. "There might be a carriage down there, perhaps?" said Regina. "To go back!" she thought, in profound desolation. "To take up our life of deception and shame! No, I will not! I will not! It must not go on!" And at last she felt the courage to bring in the end that very day. Her resolution calmed her. She seemed to lift her head, to open her eyes, to see again round her the beauties of Nature, the purifier. Just here the road broadened out. Never had she seen the Campagna so beautiful, so splendidly and magically coloured. It seemed a picture by a luminist painter--a green landscape with detached pines waving against the dazzling background of crimson and gold, an exaggeration of light, in whose intensity the figures of the passers-by, the half-naked vendors of the spa water, the mounted soldiers, the beggars lying in wait at the cross roads, stood out like bronze statues. Regina had taken her resolution, but at the cross roads it sufficed her to note the angry movement with which Antonio flung a coin to the beggars to understand that her husband was still offended, and to revive her forlorn hope of his innocence. They took the short cut. Up and down, up and down by a little path, dark, fragrant, part warm grass, part sand. The Protestant pastor, who seemed uncertain of the way, followed them. The sun was sinking, silver on the gold horizon; over the flushed grass, the shadows of the pines grew long; the eastern sky took opaque tones--the ashy violet of a pastel. For a moment Regina could have believed herself in the mountains. She could see no more than the path mounting through grass to the low summit, all green against the luminous void. Up and up! The free breath of spring restored the natural colour to Antonio's face. Spring is intolerant of ugly people. The countenance of the fair young minister became like a pink peony, scarcely opened. But here they were at the low summit, and from it appeared the azure vision of the real mountains. That day the picture of the Acqua Acetosa had a character almost biblical. Men were sleeping on the grass beside their carts, in which the load of flasks sparkled in the sun; women, children, many dogs, a little black donkey, were all so still as to seem painted on the green background of the Tiber; a line of scarce distinguishable sheep were coming down to the river to drink; boats rocked softly among the bushes of the bank. A soft breeze diffused the perfume of the flowering elders. While Antonio and Regina were descending the steps cut out on the hillside, a carriage arrived laden with five foreign ladies wearing the usual impossible little hats made of one ear of corn, a poppy, and a bunch of gauze. The lady who got out last began a dispute with the driver. "Everywhere these horrible foreigners!" said Regina, nervously, and let Antonio go down to the fountain by himself.