' Then he
puts down his basket and wipes his face with his
sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary."
"Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?"
"Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you
the address of the meeting-place while the people
are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but
if you don't like it, we can let Domenichino know
and arrange something else."
"No; it will do; only see that the beard and
wig look natural."
. . . . .
"Are you one of the pilgrims, father?"
The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal
palace, looked up from under his ragged white
locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling
voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino
slipped the leather strap from his shoulder,
and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the
step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting
on the steps and lounging about the market-place
was taking no notice of them, but for precaution's
sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino
speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in
broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.
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