it must be the poor simpleton Jervase, who had been employed as a witness in his unsuccessful expedition to the curate's house. But approaching nearer, he recognised it to be Anthony. The disease had affected his mind, as well as his body, so that in every act a slight resemblance to his weak brother might be traced.
"Oh, Tony," said Renzo, stopping before him, "is it you?" Tony raised his eyes, but not his head.
"Tony, do you not know me?"
"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he.
"Poor Tony! do you indeed not know me?"
"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he, with an idiotic smile, and then stood with his mouth open.
Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still more afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheld advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio. His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had not escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examined his person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognised Renzo with much surprise.
"Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a movement of wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves, which before could hardly contain them.
Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he had quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate.
"You here! you!" cried Don Abbondio.
"Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?"
"How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she is still in this world. But you"
"And Agnes, is she living?"
"Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here. But"
"Where is she?"
"She has gone to Valsassina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for they say that down there the pestilence has
