with her distaff by her side, and spindle in her hand. He asked for a mouthful to eat; she offered him some stracchino[1], and some wine. He accepted the food, but refused the wine; of which he felt an intuitive horror since the events of the preceding night. The old woman then began to assail her guest with enquiries of his trade, his journey, and of the news from Milan, of the disturbances of which she had heard some rumours. To her question, "Where are you going?" he replied, "I am obliged to go to many places, but if I find a moment of time, I should like to stop awhile at the village on the road to Bergamo, near the frontier, but in the territory of Milan—what do they call it?—There must be some village there," thought he.
"Gorgonzola, you mean," replied the old woman.
"Gorgonzola," repeated Renzo, as if to fix it in his memory, "Is it far from here?"
"I don't know for certain; perhaps ten or twelve miles. If one of my children were here, they could tell you."
"And do you think I could reach there by keeping on these pleasant paths, without taking the high road, where there is so much dust? such a quantity of dust! It is so long since we have had any rain!"
"I think you can. You can ask at the first village to the right,"—naming it.
"Thank you," said Renzo, carrying off the remains of his bread, which was much coarser than what he had lately eaten from the foot of the Cross of St. Dionysius; and paying the bill, departed. He took the road to the right, and with the name of Gorgonzola in his mouth, from village to village, he succeeded in reaching it an hour before sunset.
He had on his way intended to halt here for some more substantial refreshment; he felt also the need of sleep; but rather than indulge himself in this, he would have dropped dead on the road. His design was to inform himself, at the inn, of the distance from the Adda, to contrive to obtain some direction to the cross paths which led
- ↑ A kind of soft cheese.
