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Poor Renzo turned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly

onwards to his friend's. It was evening. He found him seated

before the door, on a small bench, his arms crossed on his

breast, with the air of a man stupified by distress, and

suffering from solitude. At the sound of steps he turned, and the

twilight and the foliage not permitting him to distinguish

objects distinctly, he said, "Are there not others besides me?

Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an

act of charity."

Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.

"Renzo?" replied he.

"It is indeed," said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.

"Is it you indeed?" said his friend: "oh, how happy I am to see

you! who would have thought it? I took you for one of those

persons who torment me daily to help to bury the dead. Know you

that I am left alone? alone! alone as a hermit!"