If Romola had been less drawn by the longing that was taking her away, it would have been a hard moment for her when she walked along the village street for the last time, while the Padre and Jacopo, with the mule, were awaiting her near the well. Her steps were hindered by the wailing people, who knelt and kissed her hands, then clung to her skirts and kissed the grey folds, crying, “Ah, why will you go, when the good season is beginning and the crops will be plentiful? Why will you go?”
“Do not be sorry,” said Romola, “you are well now, and I shall remember you. I must go and see if my own people want me.”
“Ah, yes, if they have the pestilence!”
“Look at us again, Madonna!”
“Yes, yes, we will be good to the little Benedetto!”
At last Romola mounted her mule, but a vigorous screaming from Benedetto as he saw her turn from him in this new position, was an excuse for all the people to follow her and insist that he must ride on the mule’s neck to the foot of the slope.
The parting must come at last, but as Romola turned continually before she passed out of sight, she saw the little flock lingering to catch the last waving of her hand.