rosy cheeks had grown thin, his eyes seemed to have enlarged, and during
his imprisonment a soft down had grown on his cheeks and chin.

He was now eighteen, but looked older, and the grave expression on his
brow and in his eyes, gave him the appearance of a man.

He had rushed straight forward, without asking himself whither; now he
reached a busy street and checked his career. Was he in Madrid? Yes,
for there rose the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he knew
well. There were the little trees at which the denizen of the Black
Forest had often smiled, but which to-day looked large and stately. Now
a toreador, whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strutted past.
This was the gate, through which he had ridden out of the city beside the
master's calash.

He must go into the town, but what should he do there?

Had they restored the master's gold with the clothes?

He searched the pockets, but instead of the purse, found only a few large
silver coins, which he knew he had not possessed at the time of his
capture.

In a cook-shop behind the gate he enjoyed some meat and wine after his
long deprivation, and after reflecting upon his situation he decided to
call on Don Fabrizio.

The porter refused him admittance, but after he had mentioned his name,
kindly invited him into the porch, and told him that the baron and his
wife were in the country with the Marquesa Romero. They were expected