"Si," she answered.

She followed him slowly across the railway line towards the sea, while
Maurice and Gaspare turned their donkeys' heads towards the mountain.

They rode upward in silence. Gaspare was sleepy. His head nodded loosely
as he rode, but his hands never let go their careful hold of the clock.
Round about him his many purchases were carefully disposed, fastened
elaborately to the big saddle. The roses, faded now, were still above his
ears. Maurice rode behind. He was not sleepy. He felt as if he would
never sleep again.

As they drew nearer to the house of the priest, Gaspare pulled himself
together with an effort, half-turned on his donkey, and looked round at
his padrone.

"Signorino!"

"Si."

"Do you think the signora will be asleep?"

"I don't know. I suppose so."

The boy looked wise.

"I do not think so," he said, firmly.

"What--at three o'clock in the morning!"

"I think the signora will be on the terrace watching for us."

Maurice's lips twitched.

"Chi lo sa?" he replied.

He tried to speak carelessly, but where was his habitual carelessness of
spirit, his carelessness of a boy now? He felt that he had lost it
forever, lost it in that last hour of the fair.

"Signorino!"

"Well?"

"Where were you and Maddalena when I was helping with the fireworks?"