A man in a white shirt came forward, leading Veronica's mare, all
saddled for her to mount.
"The carriage cannot go through the streets," said Don Teodoro, in
explanation. "They are too narrow and too rough."
"No," answered Veronica, as she stepped from the carriage upon the
muddy stones. "I will walk. If the streets are good enough for my
people, they are good enough for me."
Even to the good priest this seemed a little exaggeration on her part.
But she had seen much that day of which she had never dreamed, and in
her generous heart there was a sort of fierce wrath against so much
misery, with a strong impulse to share it or cure it, to face the devil
on his own ground, and beat him to death, hand to hand. It was perhaps
foolish of her to walk to her own gate, but there was nothing to be
ashamed of in the feeling which prompted her to do it.
Don Teodoro walked beside her on the left, and Elettra pressed close to
her on the right, as they threaded the foul black lanes towards the
castle. The moment she had left the carriage, men and women and children
had seized eagerly upon her belongings, to carry the bags and rugs and
little packages, and now they followed her in a compact crowd, all
talking together in harsh undertones; and from the dark doorways, as she
went by, old women and old men came out, and more children, half clothed
in rags, and cripples four or five. The pigs that were out in the lanes
were caught in the press and struggled desperately to get out of it,
upsetting even strong men with their heavy bodies as they charged
through the crowd, grunting and squealing.
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