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Updated: June 25, 2025
Adone, with an effort, raised himself from the trance into which he had fallen. "Forgive me, sir; you are overtired, you must rest. I will come to you later." "No, no," said Don Silverio quickly, for he thought the youth in no state to be alone. "I will wash and take a cup of coffee, then I will tell you all. Wait in my book-room." They went together to his house.
She has been a mere little runner and slave to you no more. Surely your knowledge that she depends on you ought to have sufficed to make her sacred?" Adone looked on the ground. His face was red with the dull flush of shame. He knew that he merited all these words and more. "I will provide temporarily for her; and you will send her out no more upon these errands," continued Don Silverio.
Don Silverio, who was a fine classic as well as a learned archæologist, spent all his lonely and cold winter evenings in the study of these early chronicles, his oil lamp burning pale and low, his little white dog lying on his knees. These manuscripts gave him great trouble, and were in many parts almost unintelligible, in others almost effaced by damp, in others again gnawed by rats and mice.
"I sought for an old friend of mine in Rome," said Don Silverio, endeavouring to gain his attention and divert his thought, "one Pamfilio Scoria. He was a learned scholar; he had possessed a small competence and a house of his own, small too, but of admirable architecture, a Quattrocentisto house. I could not find this house in Rome.
But how to persuade of this truth a man so blind with pain and rage and so dogged in self-will as Adone had become, Don Silverio did not see. He shrank from renewing useless struggles and disputes which led to no issue. He felt that Adone and he would only drift farther and farther apart with every word they spoke.
Adone dropped backward as if a bullet had struck him; his head smote the dry ground; he had lost consciousness, his face was livid. Don Silverio raised him and dragged him into the shade of a bay-tree and dashed water on him from the river. In a few minutes he was roused and again conscious, but on his features there was a dazed, stunned look. "You cannot save us?" he repeated.
"We must dower her and mate her; eh, your reverence?" she said to Don Silverio when he passed by later in that day. "Willingly," he answered. "But to whom? To the owls or the cats at Ruscino?" In himself he thought, "She is as straight and as slight as a chestnut wand, but she is as strong. When you shall try to bend her where she shall not want to go you will not succeed."
Adone, moved by long habit of obedience and deference, leapt with his agile feet on to the border of the trench and stood there, silent, sullen, ready to repel reproof with insolence. "Is it worthy of you to ruin the name of a girl of sixteen by sending her on midnight errands to your fellow-rebels?" Don Silverio spoke bluntly; he spoke only on suspicion, but his tone was that of a direct charge.
When I gave him The House of Aizgorri, he was outraged by the optimistic conclusion of the book, and advised me to change it. According to his theory, if the son of the Aizgorri family came to a bad end, the daughter ought to come to a bad end also. Being of a somewhat fantastical turn of mind, Silverio Lanza was full of political projects that were extraordinary.
Some little soldiers in dingy uniforms, ill-cut and ill-fitting, stood about gates and doors. On the first floor were the apartments occupied by his Excellency. Don Silverio was kept waiting for some time in a vestibule of fine proportions painted by Diotisalvi, with a colossal marble group in its centre of the death of Caesar. He looked at it wistfully.
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