They swerved northward into a narrow byway that was a short crossing to the road that followed Adda’s margin. It was a precipitate dive into the woods. There was no light save that cast by the car’s lamps, and the course was difficult with many a sharp crook. Every minute they were on the point of vaulting into the thicket or trying conclusions with a sturdy oak. They rocked and swayed at times as if their carrier was a boat in a choppy sea. Hera was occupied in holding fast, but Sandro seemed not to know that the experience was at all unusual. Forgetting himself and all the world except the road and the dangers that the lamps revealed, he became a part of the dodging, spinning thing, meeting emergencies with a passive certainty that was more automatic than human. He had seen in Hera’s eye that more than a lady’s caprice had inspired this nocturnal flight, and he had prayed that none of his steed’s airy feet might know puncture, or heart-failure attack it through the carbureter. When they had struck again into a straight run, and through the vista of foliage could see the river’s sheening face, Sandro shouted, in an access of pride for his achievement: “It was very amusing, that little bit there! I know my trade, do I not, your Excellency?” Hera gave him an appreciative smile and a nod, although he had not made his words carry above the roar and yell that were with them always. The wheels on one side clear of the earth, they rounded a corner and darted forth on the fine river road. Now the way was as level as a plank. Sandro moved the speed lever, and the file of poplars, yards apart, chased away like giants close upon one another’s heels. Houses on the passing hillside, with lighted windows, winked at them and were gone. All the details of the landscape were on the move. Villages streamed by in jumbled masses of low masonry. The bridge of Speranza swept past to join other landmarks, and Hera caught sight of a horseman, so far ahead as to be beyond the range of the lamps but showing distinctly in the paleness of the night. Standing up and leaning forward so that she might pour all the power of her voice against Sandro’s ear-drum, she told him to “Stop!” It was two miles yet to Villa Barbiondi, and he answered her with only an assurance that there was no danger. And not until she had shaken him by the shoulder and pointed to the figure now in the lamp glare did he shut off speed and set his brake down. The rider had gone from the highway into the little road that ran uphill to the monastery ruins. Within a few feet of the turning Sandro brought the car to a halt. He looked around for the lady, but she had disengaged herself from the lap covering, thrown off the mask, and was on the ground, running toward the horseman. With all her strength she called his name, and the grove of maples into whose darkness he had passed gave back her voice. “Mario, Mario! It is I, Hera!”