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Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still

more afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he

beheld advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be

Don Abbondio. His pale countenance and general appearance showed

that he also had not escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a

stranger, anxiously examined his person, whose costume was that

of Bergamo. At length he recognised Renzo with much surprise.

"Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a

movement of wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling

in his sleeves, which before could hardly contain them.

Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he

had quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his

curate.

"You here! you!" cried Don Abbondio.

"Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?"

"How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if

she is still in this world. But you--"

"And Agnes, is she living?"