The following morning we were to ride up the mountain to the Sagro
Eremo. Convent hours are early, and soon after the dawn we
had convoyed our female companion down the hill to the little
_forestieria_ for breakfast, where the _padre forestieraio_ gave us
the best coffee we had had for many a day. George Eliot declared that
she had had an exceptionally good night, and was delighted with the
talk of the magnificently black-bearded father, who superintended our
meal, while a lay brother waited on us.
The former was to start in a day or two on his triennial holiday, and
he was much excited at the prospect of it. His _naif_ talk and quite
childlike questions and speculations as to times and distances, and
what could be done in a day, and the like, amused George Eliot much.
In reckoning up his available hours he deducted so much in each day
for the due performance of his canonical duties. I remarked to him
that he could read the prescribed service in the diligence, as I had
often seen priests doing. "Secular priests no doubt!" he said, "but
that would not suit one of _us!_"
Our ride up to the Sagro Eremo was a thing to be remembered! I had
seen and done it all before; but I had not seen or done it in company
with George Eliot. It was like doing it with a new pair of eyes, and
freshly inspired mind! The way is long and steep, through magnificent
forests, with every here and there a lovely enclosed lawn, and
fugitive peeps over the distant country.
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