Unaware of what the Prior had plotted behind their backs, Pinuccia and Dalmatius resumed their journey early in the morning. The day looked to be clear, but inside the bush the humidity rose from the ground in light swirls of condensed steam, where the horses’ hooves hid almost as if they were immersed in a low stream. Dalmatius had his horse proceeded cautiously, at pace, paying attention to any noise, even the most insignificant. Pinuccia, riding her horse, followed the armiger at a very short distance; the muzzle of his animal often grazed the tail of the one before him. The cry of a cuckoo accompanied them for a long stretch. Long in a manner of speaking, because if they had made that journey on foot with their own legs, perhaps they would have walked it much faster. As the sun was rea
