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Our traveller proceeded on full of joy, without having thought

where or when he should stop for the night; anxious only to go

forward to reach the village, and to proceed immediately to

Pasturo in search of Agnes. In the midst of the reminiscences of

the horrors and the dangers of the day, there was always present

the thought, "I have found her! she is well! she is mine!"

And then again he recalled his doubts, his difficulties, his

fears, his hopes, that had agitated him that eventful morning! He

fancied himself with his hand on the knocker of Don Ferrante's

house! And the unfavourable answer! And then those fools who were

about to attack him in their madness! And the lazaretto, that

vast sepulchre! To have hurried thither to find her, and to have

found her! And the procession! What a moment! And now it appeared

nothing to him! And the quarter set apart for the women! And

there, behind that cabin when he least expected it, that voice!

that voice itself! And to see her there! But then her vow! It

exists no longer. And his violent hatred against Don Roderick,

which had augmented his grief, and shed its venom over his hopes!

That also was gone. Indeed, had it not been for his uncertainty

concerning Agnes, his anxiety about Father Christopher, and the

consciousness that the pestilence still existed, his happiness

would have been without alloy.