a quarter past seven
The horizon was on fire behind Subiaco , along the oblique line of the Sabine hills , which stretch from Rocca di Canterano and Rocca di Mezzo to Rocca San Stefano . Subiaco , that pointed pile of houses large and small which culminates in the Rocca del Cardinale , was veiled in shadow ; not a branch stirred on the olives clustered behind the small , red villa with green blinds , rising on the summit of the circular cliff , round whose base winds the public road ; not a branch stirred on the great oak beside it , overhanging the little ancient oratory of Santa Maria della Febbre . The air , laden with the odours of wild herbs and recent rain , came fresh from Monte Calvo . It was a quarter past seven . In the shell-shaped tract watered by the Anio the bells were ringing ; first the big bell of Sant ' Andrea , then the querulous bells of Santa Maria della Valle ; high up on the right , from the little white church near the great wood , the bells of the Capuchins , and others in the far-away distance . A woman 's voice , submissive and sweet , the voice of five and twenty , came from the half-open , door behind Giovanni , saying almost timidly In French : `` May I come in ? '' Giovanni , smiling , turned half round , and stretching out his arm , encircled the young woman pressing her to his side without answering .