He turned away, and looked out into the garden. She watched him furtively, half-scared at what she had done; there was something terrifying in his silence. At last she stole up to him, like a frightened child, and timidly pulled his sleeve. He turned round. “It is true,” he said. CHAPTER XI. “BUT c-c-can't I meet him somewhere in the hills? Brisighella is a risky place for me.” “Every inch of ground in the Romagna is risky for you; but just at this moment Brisighella is safer for you than any other place.” “Why?” “I'll tell you in a minute. Don't let that man with the blue jacket see your face; he's dangerous. Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don't remember to have seen the vines so bad for a long time.” The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and laid his face upon them, like a man overcome with fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only two farmers discussing their crops over a flask of wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head on the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in little places like Marradi; and the owner of the blue jacket apparently made up his mind that nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank his wine at a gulp and sauntered into the outer room. There he stood leaning on the counter and gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every now and then out of the corner of one eye through the open door, beyond which sat the three figures at the table. The two farmers went on sipping their wine and discussing the weather in the local dialect, and the Gadfly snored like a man whose conscience is sound. At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that there was nothing in the wine-shop worth further waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and, lounging out of the house, sauntered away down the narrow street. The Gadfly, yawning and stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes. “Pretty sharp practice that,” he said, pulling a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. “Have they been worrying you much lately, Michele?” “They've been worse than mosquitos in August. There's no getting a minute's peace; wherever one goes, there's always a spy hanging about. Even right up in the hills, where they used to be so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming in bands of three or four--haven't they, Gino? That's why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino in the town.” “Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town is always full of spies.” “Brisighella just now is a capital place. It's swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country.” “But it's not on the way to anywhere.” “It's not far out of the way to Rome, and many of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear Mass there.” “I d-d-didn't know there was anything special in Brisighella.”