a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.
With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The cold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained and impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.
"Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day."
"But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo."
"I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?"
"Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master."
"I was right in supposing there was a mystery," thought Renzo. "Come, come, Perpetua," continued he, "we are friends; tell me what you know,—help a poor young man."
"It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo."
"That is true," replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions—"that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor."
"Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame."
"Who then is to blame?" asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.
"I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God."
