The oldest man, he who was now head of the house, remained prostrate
on the threshold and beat the dust with his hands and heels; he was
afraid to enter, afraid of that motionless, lifeless bag of bones of
which the last cry had been a curse at him.

Don Silverio went on his way over the moors homeward, for he had no
means except his own limbs whereby to go his scattered parishioners.
When he reached the village and climbed its steep stones night had
long fallen and he was sorely tired. He entered by a door which was
never locked, and found an oil wick burning on his table, which was
set out with the brown crockery used for his frugal supper of cheese
and lettuce and bread. His old servant was abed. His little dog alone
was on the watch to welcome him. It was a poor, plain place, with
whitewashed walls and a few necessary articles of use; but it was
clean and sweet, its brick floors were sanded, and the night air blew
in from its open casement with the freshness from the river in it.
Its quiet was seldom disturbed except by the tolling of the bell for
the church services; and it was welcome to him after the toil and
heat and stench of the past day.

"My lot might have been worse," he thought, as he broke his loaf; he
was disinclined to eat; the filthy odours of the cabin pursued him.

He was used to have had a little weekly journal sent to him by the
post; which came at rare intervals on an ass's back to Ruscino, the
ass and his rider, with a meal sack half filled by the meagre
correspondence of the district, making the rounds of that part of the
province with an irregularity which seemed as natural to the
sufferers by it as to the postman himself. "He cannot be everywhere