to teach and move the young malleable mind of Adone Alba; the only
one of them who seemed to have any mind at all. Adone also had a
voice as sweet as a nightingale in the syringa bushes in May; and it
pierced the gloom of the old naked gaunt church as a nightingale's
thrills through the dark hour before dawn.

There was no other music in that choir except the children's or
youths' voices; there was nothing to make music with except those
flexible pipes of the boyish throats; and Don Silverio loved and
understood choral music; he had studied it in Rome. Adone never
refused to sing for him, and when the voice of adolescence had
replaced that of childhood, he would still stand no less docilely by
the old marble lectern, and wake the melodies of early masters from
the yellow pages.

The church was as damp as a vault of the dead; cold even when the
dog-star reigned in the heavens. The brasses and bronzes were rusted
with moisture, and the marbles were black with the spores of mould;
rain dripped through the joints of the roof, and innumberable
sparrows made their nests there; the mosaics of the floor were green
from these droppings, and from those of the rain; the sun never
entered through any of the windows, which were yellow with age and
dust; but here, with a lantern for their only light, they solaced
each other with the song of the great choral masters. Only Adone,
although he never said or showed it, was glad when the huge key
groaned in the lock of the outer door, and he ran out into the
evening starlight, down the steep streets, across the bridge, and
felt the fresh river air blowing on him, and heard the swirling of
the water amongst the frost-stiffened canes, and saw far off in the
darkened fields the glimmer of a light--the light of home.