was against me. Everything! Even the sun seemed to beat down his hottest rays to increase my misery. What had I done that all this should come to me? I clenched my fist, and in impotent rage cursed God....
At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with dark fir trees; I came nearer, and the sight of the sombre green was like a draught of cool water. I could no longer bear the horror of the heat. From the main road another smaller one led winding up the hill. I turned my horse, and soon we were among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight in the coolness. I dismounted and led him by the bridle; it was enchanting to walk along the path, soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious green smell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, where was a little pond; I watered the poor beast, and, throwing myself down, drank deeply. Then I tied him to a tree and advanced a few steps alone. I came to a sort of terrace, and going forward found myself at the edge of the hill, looking over the plain. Behind, the tall fir trees gave me shade and coolness; I sat down, looking at the country before me. In the cloudless sky it seemed now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I could see the walls and towers of some city, and to it in broad curves wound a river; the maze and corn, vines and olive trees, covered the land, and in the distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why should the world be so beautiful, and I so miserable?
'It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.'
I looked up and saw the monk whom I had spoken with at the inn. He put down his sack and sat by my side.
'You do not think me importunate?' he asked.
'I beg your pardon,' I replied, 'I was not civil to you; you must forgive me. I was not myself.'
'Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came down to you to offer you our hospitality.'
I looked at him questioningly; he pointed over his shoulder, and looking, I saw, perched on the top of the hill, piercing through the trees, a little monastery.
'How peaceful it looks!' I said.
'It is, indeed. St Francis himself used sometimes to come to enjoy the quiet.'
I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the life I hated, and also enjoy the quiet? I felt the monk was watching me, and, looking up, I met his glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply-sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. And he was pale and worn from prayer and fasting. But his voice was sweet and very gentle.
'Why do you look at me?' I said.
'I was in the tavern when you disarmed the man and gave him his life.'
'It was not for charity and mercy,' I said bitterly.
'I know,' he answered, 'it was from despair.'
'How do you know?'
'I watched you; and at the end I said, '"God pity his unhappiness."'
I looked with astonishment at the strange man; and then, with a groan, I said,—
'Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.'
He took my hands in his, and with the gentleness of the mother of God herself replied,—
'"Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."'
Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried my face in his bosom, and burst into tears.
EPILOGUE
AND now many years have passed, and the noble gentleman, Filippo Brandolini is the poor monk Giuliano; the gorgeous clothes, velvets and satins, have given way to the brown sackcloth of the Seraphic Father; and instead of golden belts my waist is girt with a hempen cord. And in me, what changes have taken place! The brown hair, which women kissed, is a little circlet in sign of the Redeemer's crown, and it is as white as snow. My eyes are dim and sunken, my cheeks are hollow, and the skin of my youth is ashy and wrinkled; the white teeth of my mouth have gone, but my toothless gums suffice for the monkish fare; and I am old and bent and weak.
One day in the spring I came to the terrace which overlooks the plain, and as I sat down to warm myself in the sunshine, gazing at the broad country which now I knew so well, and the distant hills, the wish came to me to write the history of my life.
And now that, too, is done. I have nothing more to tell except that from the day when I arrived, weary of soul, to the cool shade of the fir trees, I have never gone into the world again. I gave my lands and palaces to my brother in the hope that he would make better use of his life than I, and to him I gave the charge of seeing that heirs were given to the ancient name. I knew I had failed in everything. My life had gone wrong, I know not why; and I had not the courage to adventure further. I withdrew from the battle in my unfitness, and let the world pass on and forget my poor existence.
Checco lived on, scheming and intriguing, wearing away his life in attempts to regain his fatherland, and always he was disappointed, always his hopes frustrated, till at last he despaired. And after six years, worn out with his fruitless efforts, mourning the greatness he had lost, and pining for the country he loved so well, he died of a broken heart, an exile.
Matteo went back to his arms and the reckless life of the soldier of fortune, and was killed bravely fighting against the foreign invader, and died, knowing that his efforts, too, had been in vain, and that the sweet land of Italy lay fallen and enslaved.
And I do not know whether they had not the better lot; for they are at peace, while I—I pursue my lonely pilgrimage through life, and the goal is ever far off. Now it cannot be much longer, my strength is failing, and soon I shall have the peace I wished for. Oh God, I do not ask You for crowns of gold and heavenly raiment, I do not aspire to the bliss which is the portion of the saint, but give me rest. When the great Release comes, give me rest; let me sleep the long sleep without awakening, so that at last I may forget and be at peace. O God, give me rest!
Often, as I trudged along the roads barefooted to gather food and alms, have I wished to lay myself in the ditch by the wayside and die. Sometimes I have heard the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death; but he has taken the strong and the happy, and left me to wander on.
The good man told me I should receive happiness; I have not even received forgetfulness. I go along the roads thinking of my life and the love that ruined me. Ah! how weak I am; but, forgive me, I cannot help myself! Sometimes when I have been able to do good I have felt a strange delight, I have felt the blessed joy of charity. And I love my people, the poor folk of the country round. They come to me in their troubles, and when I can help them I share their pleasure. But that is all I have. Ah! mine has been a useless life, I have wasted it; and if of late I have done a little good to my fellowmen, alas! how little!
I bear my soul in patience, but sometimes I cannot help rising up against fate, and crying out that it is hard that all this should happen to me. Why? What had I done that I should be denied the little happiness of this world? Why should I be more unhappy than others? But then I chide myself, and ask whether I have indeed been less happy. Are they any of them happy? Or are those right who say that the world is misery, and that the only happiness is to die? Who knows?
Ah, Giulia, how I loved thee!
O Ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova?
Tutti tornate alla gran madre antica,
