And, as a background to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment of an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space, alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.
All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing Santobono, exclaimed: "I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of white wine.

I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little white wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with." Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted.

"Oh! I know it," said he; "it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil than ours at Frascati." Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now carried it along with him, the Count lost patience.

"Come, you don't want that basket," said he; "leave it in the carriage." The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up his mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban _osteria_ was like.

Prada was known at this place, and an old woman, tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had at once presented herself.