His enemies had let him keep his
sword because they had no cause to fear it. Alone he passed through the
gardens of the palace, and out into the desert darkness of the streets.
Skirting the wall of the Benedictine convent where Fulvia had lodged, he
gained a street leading to the marketplace. In the pallor of the waning
night the ancient monuments of his race stood up mournful and deserted
as a line of tombs. The city seemed a grave-yard and he the ineffectual
ghost of its dead past. He reached the gates and gave the watchword. The
gates were guarded, as he had been advised; but the captain of the watch
let him pass without show of hesitation or curiosity. Though he made no
effort at disguise he went forth unrecognised, and the city closed her
doors on him as carelessly as on any passing wanderer.
Beyond the gates a lad from the ducal stables waited with a horse. Odo
sprang into the saddle and rode on toward Pontesordo. The darkness was
growing thinner, and the meagre details of the landscape, with its
huddled farm-houses and mulberry-orchards, began to define themselves as
he advanced. To his left the field stretched, grey and sodden; ahead, on
his right, hung the dark woods of the ducal chase. Presently a bend of
the road brought him within sight of the keep of Pontesordo. His way led
past it, toward Valsecca; but some obscure instinct laid a detaining
hand on him, and at the cross-roads he bent to the right and rode across
the marshland to the old manor-house.
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