CHAPTER IV

DEAD LEAVES Through bleak and desolate stretches Francesco spurred his steed, as if to outstrip his mastering agony. Ilaria had gone from him. Nothing mattered any longer. He had no longer the sense that there could be duty for him. Even in his wish for freedom there was cowardice; his soul cried out for rest, for peace from the enemy; peace, not this endless striving. He was terrified. In the ignominious lament there was desertion, as if he were too small for the fight. He was demanding happiness, and that his own…