force and fraud, making the Arbia run red with Florentine blood the
while, to will and think precisely what he willed and thought himself.
For all that, the Reverend Father Adone Doni was a tender-hearted
dreamer of dreams. It was on the spiritual authority of St. Peter's
chair he counted to establish in this world the kingdom of God. He
believed the Paraclete was leading the Popes along a road unknown to
themselves. Therefore he had nothing but deferential words for the
_Roaring Lamb of Sinigaglia_ and the _Opportunist_ _Eagle of
Carpineto_, as it was his custom to designate Pius IX and Leo XIII
respectively.

Agreeable as was the Reverend Father's conversation to me, I used, out
of respect for his freedom of action and my own, to avoid showing myself
too assiduous in seeking his society inside the city walls, while on his
side he observed an exquisite discretion towards myself. But in our
walks abroad we frequently managed to meet as if by accident. Half a
league outside the Porta Romana the high road traverses a hollow way
between melancholy uplands on either hand, relieved only by a few gloomy
larches. Under the clayey slope of the northern escarpment and close by
the roadside, a dry well rears its light canopy of open ironwork.

At this spot I would encounter the Reverend Father Adone Doni almost
every evening, seated on the coping of the well, his hands buried in the
sleeves of his gown, gazing out with mild surprise into the night. The
gathering dusk still left it possible to make out on his bright-eyed,
flat-nosed face the habitual expression of timid daring and graceful
irony which was impressed upon it so profoundly. At first we merely
exchanged formal good wishes for each other's health, peace and
happiness. Then I would take my place by his side on the old stone
well-head, that bore some traces of carving. It was still possible, in