It was high summer again, and the Roman shore was feverish.

In the hot afternoon Ercole had tramped along the shore with his dog at his heels as far as Torre San Lorenzo to have a chat with the watchman.

They sat in the shade of the tower, smoking little red clay pipes with long wooden stems.

The chickens walked about slowly, evidently oppressed by the heat and by a general lack of interest in life, since not a single grain of maize from the morning feed remained to be discovered on the disused brick threshing-floor or in the sand that surrounded it.

From some dark recess came the occasional grunt of the pig, attending in solitude to the business of getting fat before October.