THE PASSPORT

I

The fierce heat of the mid-day hours was waning, andthe leaves stirred in the first faint breath of theevening breeze stealing over the Roman Campagna from the seathat lay like a golden streak along the western horizon. Itwas the month of the sollione--of the midsummer sun"rejoicing as a giant to run his course." From twelveo'clock till four the little town of Montefiano, nestling amongthe lower spurs of the Sabine Hills, had been as a place fromwhich all life had fled. Not a human creature had beenvisible in the steep, tufa-paved street leading up to thesquare palace that looked grimly down on the littletownship clustering beneath it--not even a dog; only somechickens dusting themselves, and a strayed pig.

The cicale, hidden among the branches of a group ofvenerable Spanish chestnuts on the piazza in front of thechurch, had never ceased their monotonous rattle; otherwisesilence had reigned at Montefiano since the church bells hadrung out mezzogiorno—that silence which falls on allnature in Italy during the hours when the sollione blazes inthe heavens and breeds life on the earth.

But now, with the first coming of the evening breeze,casements were thrown open, green shutters which hadbeen hermetically closed since morning were flung backand Montefiano awoke for the second time in thetwenty-four hours.

A side door of the church opened, and Don Agostino, theparish priest, emerged from it, carrying his breviary in onehand and an umbrella tucked under the other arm. Crossingthe little square hurriedly, for the western sun still beatfiercely upon the flag-stones, he sought the shade of thechestnut-trees, under which he began pacing slowlybackwards and forwards, saying his office the while.

A tall, handsome man, Don Agostino was scarcely thetype of priest usually to be met with in hill villages such asMontefiano. His black silk soutane was scrupulously cleanand tidy; and its button-holes stitched with red, as well asthe little patch of violet silk at his throat, proclaimed him tobe a monsignore. Nobody at Montefiano called him so,however. To his parishioners he was simply Don Agostino;and, in a district in which priests were none too well lookedupon, there was not a man, woman, or child who had not agood word to say for him.

This was the more remarkable inasmuch

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