Indeed, as they rapidly approached his own feudal
domains his self-confidence returned apace. Spots of light dazzled; moved here and
there like beams of a torchon a wall; vanished. At aseemingly vast distance within
arose the jangle of a small bell.
His hand felt the hollowin the cushions where Maria
had once sat beside him.
The iciness ofhis wifes hand seemed to remain in
the palm of Don Luis. The experience through which he had passed had shaken him more
thanhe cared to admit.
The story must die, be buried here with the lovely
andfaithless dust in the next room.
She clutched it to her breast and trudged up the
road with the drysnow blowing like dust about her. She took the child up in her arms
and went over to the fountain.
Inside were a fewsilver toilet articles and on the
bottom Marias black ridingcloak. An hour later they arrived indarkness and in icy
storm.
The old woman was piling hot stones wrapped incloth
about her extremities.
If this woman ever followed him, he would know how
to take care ofHER. He followed the other boy around and around thebasin. The
pigeons which now approached she drove away.
Some of the old women in the courtyard died and
were buried.
She jabbered at him in a dialect he could not
understand. The baby and the fountain sangtogether in the beautiful first morning of
life.
Through the highpass as they slowly mounted swept
the white, swirling skirts ofDecember storms. In fact, he was already quite sure of
it.
On all sides of it extended corridors, long,
dark,silent. They turned south at Pontedera from the main route to Florence andtook
the road to Livorno. Should they ever meet it would always beat right angles, and on
different levels.
At aseemingly vast distance within arose the jangle
of a small bell. The child in the convent awoke and cried out as the bag was
openedand the light dazzled it.
So the boy in the fountain became Anthony,his best,
and for a while his only friend.
Outside the tumult of thewind was
incredible.
Sister Agatha would come in and look at him when he
shouted. They took care of him throughthe afternoon until Contessina returned in the
evening. Occasionally the pigeons and thewater accidentally harmonized like a
musical accompaniment.
The world as he found it nevertheless permitted him
to exist rathersatisfactorily. He began to lie under thetree in a bowl of its great
roots near the bronze boy and look up. Sometimes itsounded as if they were being
chased by mice.
He did not care to havethat on his soul in addition
to .
In this its waters might be said toresemble the
flowing stream of events themselves. Spots of light dazzled; moved here and there
like beams of a torchon a wall; vanished. At the top he placed a tightly folded note
that hescrawled, and pulled the strings tight.
There was not even a professional
welcome.
Lucia wassleeping deeply, her face marked with the
heavy lines of sadfatigue.
Hebrought him a wooden horse, a ball, some coloured
stones and abroken abacus instead.