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Boston.”
    “That’s true.
But did he look well to you?
”
    Longfellow examined her familiar features closely, before he gave his answer.
    “It might be best, after all, to post a sign warning others not to enter. Many ills race swiftly through a population … especially, as I think of it, in August and September. And, as Boston is a seaport—yes, I’ll make a sketch, and when I send off my handiwork I’ll enclose a request for Warren to come, just to be safe. It will give him a healthy ride. Now, where has Il Colombo got to? There he is, next to all the Proctors. Shall we take him home? He, too, seems not entirely well; I hope melancholy is all that is wrong with
him
today.”
    As they joined Signor Lahte, they saw that his spirits had already returned. This was fortunate, for Reverend Rowe approached them along the main road.
    “Gian Carlo,” his host called. “Are you sufficiently restoredto be presented to what passes in Massachusetts for a holy man?”
    “I will be delighted,” the musico answered.
    “I doubt that,” said Longfellow, “but we shall see.”
    “ SO. I ASSUME you were born a Roman Catholic, signor?”
    Christian Rowe, clothed in his usual ill-fitting suit of black broadcloth, pronounced the strange title with great distaste, after receiving what he supposed was a sinfully excessive bow.
    “I was raised in the Church, good Father, but I now dispute the many laws of Rome—and I strongly repent of partaking in its superstitious ceremonies.”
    “Oh?” Rowe brightened a little, while he adjusted his stiff round hat over a halo of golden hair. “Then am I to presume you are now a Protestant?”
    “I protest much in this sad life, Father, and pray you will take me into your flock. For like the poor sheep, I must look for guidance. I must tell you that I learned of your wisdom even before coming here.”
    “Really!” the reverend responded, rising on his toes. He gave a fond sigh for several slim volumes of his sermons, copies printed the previous winter and left in a King Street shop. Perhaps not all of them had languished, after all. “That is gratifying,” he allowed, giving the gentleman before him a faint smile. “Although as a minister, rather than a popish priest, I should be addressed as ‘Reverend,’ or simply ‘sir.’ We do not see our spiritual leaders as all-powerful, yet make no mistake, sir—ministers
are
well respected here, for their wisdom and learning.”
    “But of course!”
    “You do realize,” Rowe interrupted with a new suspicion,“that there is no question of a Roman mass ever being said in Massachusetts?”
    “Who, Reverend sir, would dare to so pollute such a grave and holy place?”
    After that, Rowe’s face beamed with a beatific mildness … until a slight movement drew his attention, and his expression changed once more.
    “Madam, have
you, too
, gone down to examine that man’s body?”
    “I was convinced it was my duty, sir, to examine his face, since no one yet knows who he is.”
    “Duty! A word one rarely hears on your lips, Mrs. Willett—”
    Longfellow caught the preacher’s eye; then, he turned to gaze at a new slate roof on the stone manse behind them, a recent, and expensive, gift.
    “But you are entirely correct,” Christian Rowe continued, “in suggesting it is the duty of us all to help our fellow creatures. Someone, somewhere, must be searching for this man—whose death, I am told, was an accident?” The preacher relaxed only when several nods assured him he would receive no more unsettling news.
    “Well, then, that’s that,” Longfellow concluded with evident satisfaction. Like Rowe, he had no desire to add to their previous experience of crime, and punishment. “It won’t be necessary for you to take more than a brief look at the body, Reverend. As it is the height of summer, I have some fear of contagion. In fact, I believe I’ll call for a physician to see to him, at the town’s expense. I plan to take the