The plague of darkness and thirst for daylight prevented Wilfrid from
having any other sentiment than gladness that a companion equally
unfortunate with himself was here, and equally desirous to go forth.
When Barto's wife brought their meal, and the lamp to light them eating
it, Rinaldo handed her pen, ink, pencil, paper, all the material of
correspondence; upon which, as one who had received a stipulated
exchange, she let the lamp remain. While the new and thrice-dear rays
were illumining her dark-coloured solid beauty, I know not what touch of
man-like envy or hurt vanity led Wilfrid to observe that the woman's eyes
dwelt with a singular fulness and softness on Rinaldo. It was fulness
and softness void of fire, a true ox-eyed gaze, but human in the fall of
the eyelids; almost such as an early poet of the brush gave to the Virgin
carrying her Child, to become an everlasting reduplicated image of a
mother's strong beneficence of love. He called Rinaldo's attention to it
when the woman had gone. Rinaldo understood his meaning at once.

"It will have to be so, I fear," he said; "I have thought of it. But if
I lead her to disobey Barto, there is little hope for the poor soul." He
rose up straight, like one who would utter grace for meat. "Must we, O
my God, give a sacrifice at every step?"

With that he resumed his seat stiffly, and bent and murmured to himself.
Wilfrid had at one time of his life imagined that he was marked by a
peculiar distinction from the common herd; but contact with this young
man taught him to feel his fellowship to the world at large, and to
rejoice at it, though it partially humbled him.

They had no further visit from Barto Rizzo. The woman tended them in the
same unswerving silence, and at whiles that adorable maternity of aspect.
Wilfrid was touched by commiseration for her. He was too bitterly