"When I think of incarnate purity," said Giovanni, "I see! Don Clemente before me. Did I tell you he is coming to the meeting to-night? He will come down directly after supper."

Maria started. "Oh!" said she, "I almost forgot to tell you Noemi has written to me. She was to leave Milan yesterday with the Dessalles, They are going to stay in Rome a day or two, and then they are coming here."

"You recalled this because I mentioned Don Clemente," said Giovanni smiling. "Yes," replied his wife; "nevertheless, you know I do not believe."

How could Don Clemente's lofty forehead, his blue eyes, so serene and pure, have known passion? In the soft, submissive, almost timid voice of the young Benedictine there was—to Maria's mind—a chastity too delicate, a purity too virginal.

"You do not believe," Giovanni answered, "and perhaps, after all, you are right; perhaps, after all, he is not Maironi. Still it will be better to let him know to-night, in some way, that Signora Dessalle is coming to Subiaco, and that she will, of course, visit the convents. Especially as he would be obliged to accompany her, being the Father who receives visitors."

There could be no doubt about this. Maria herself would warn him. As she did not believe him to have been Jeanne's lover it would be easier for her to speak naturally to him of her. But what a terrible thing it would be if he really were Maironi, and if they should meet face to face, quite unprepared, in front of the monastery, he and the woman! Was Giovanni quite sure the monk was coming to the meeting? Yes, quite sure. Don Clemente had obtained the abbot's permission while Giovanni was at the convent, and had at once told him. He was coming, and would bring with him, and introduce to them, the man who helped the kitchen-gardener, of whom he had already spoken to Giovanni. Thus, another time, the gardener could come alone, and would teach him to bank up the potatoes in the little piece of ground he had hired behind the villa, intending to cultivate it with his own hands. Manual labour, to which he had recently taken, was a pet hobby of Giovanni's of which Maria did not altogether approve, deeming it incompatible with his habits and with his age. However, she respected his whim and held her peace. At that moment the girl from Affile, who served them, came to tell them that their guests were on their way upstairs, and that supper would be ready shortly.

Three people, in fact, were ascending the narrow winding stair of the little villa, Giovanni went down to meet them. First came his young friend Leyni, who, on greeting Giovanni, begged to be excused for preceding the two ecclesiastics who were his companions.

"I am master of ceremonies," he explained, and proceeded to introduce them there on the stairs.

"The Abbe Marinier of Geneva. Don Paolo Fare of Varese, with whose name you are already acquainted."

Selva was slightly perplexed; nevertheless he at once invited his guests to follow him, and conducted them to the terrace, where some chairs had been placed.

"And Dane?" said he anxiously to Leyni, taking his arm, "And Professor Minucci, and Father Salvati."

"They have arrived," the young man replied, smiling. "They are at the Aniene. I must tell you about it—but it is a long story! They will be here presently."

Meanwhile the Abbe Marinier had gone out on the terrace, and now exclaimed:

"Oh, c'est admirable!"

Don Paolo Fare, always loyal to his native Como, murmured, "Beautiful, beautiful indeed!" as if he would have liked to add, "but if you could only see my country!"

Maria joined them, and the introductions were repeated; then Leyni told his story while Marinier let his little sparkling eyes wander over the landscape, from the pyramid-shaped Subiaco, standing out with a dark scenic effect against the bright background in the west, to the wild hornbeams close by, which shut out the east.

Don Fare was devouring Selva with his eyes, Selva, the author of critical essays on the Old and New Testament, and especially of a book on the basis of future Catholic theology, which had elevated and transfigured his faith. Baron Leyni was telling his story. At the station of Mandela it had been very windy, and Professor Dane greatly feared he had taken cold; suspecting that there would be no cognac in the house of such an alcohol hater as Selva, and, moreover, the hour having arrived at which it was his daily custom to take two eggs, he had stopped at the Albergo dell' Aniene for the eggs and cognac. On the terrace of the restaurant, which faced the river, there was too much air, and in the small adjacent rooms there was too little, so he had ordered his repast served in a room at the hotel, and had sent the eggs back twice. Then the others had walked on, leaving him in the company of Professor Minucci and Father Salvati.

As Professor Dane, who was so delicate and sensitive to the cold, was not of the party, Giovanni proposed having supper on the terrace. He at once abandoned the idea, however, on perceiving that it did not suit the Abbe from Geneva. The elegant, worldly Marinier took as great care of his own person as did his friend Dane, but with more dissimulation and without the excuse of ill-health. He had not, stayed to supper at the Aniene with his friend, because, on a previous visit to Subiaco, he had found the cuisine of that hotel too simple to suit his taste, and he had hopes of a French supper from Signora Selva. Baron Leyni knew well how fallacious such hopes were; but in a spirit of mischief he refrained from enlightening him. There was barely: room for the five people in the tiny dining-room. It was fortunate the other two had not come. In fact, neither the Abbe Marinier nor Don Fare was expected, but others who had been expected were absent. A monk and a priest, men of repute from northern Italy, who should have been present, had both written to apologise for their absence, to the lively regret of Selva, of Fare, and of Leyni. Marinier, on the other hand, proffered his apologies for having intruded. Dane was responsible for his presence, as Leyni was for the presence of Don Paolo Fare. Selva protested. Friends of his friends were, of course, always welcome. Leyni and Dane both knew they were free to bring any one in whom they had confidence, any one who shared their views. Maria was silent; she was not greatly pleased with Abbe Marinier. She also felt that Leyni and Dane would have done well had they abstained from introducing strangers without notifying Giovanni. Marinier spoke, with slightly knitted brows, after a close scrutiny of his bean soup.

"I fear," said he, "we shall weary Signora Selva if we talk now of the subject to be discussed at the meeting."

Maria reassured him. She should not be present at the meeting, but she took the liveliest interest in its objects.

"Very well, then," Marinier continued. "It will be a great advantage to me to become better acquainted with those objects, for Dane has spoken of them only in rather vague terms, and I do not feel sure that I entirely share your views."

Don Paole could not restrain a movement of impatience. Selva himself seemed slightly annoyed, because unanimity of opinion on certain fundamental principles was surely necessary. Without this unanimity the meeting might prove worse than useless, even dangerous. "Well," said he, "there are many Catholics in Italy and outside of Italy who, with us, desire certain reforms in the Church. We wish them to be brought about without rebellion, to be the work of the legitimate authorities. We desire reforms in religious instruction, in the ceremonies, in the discipline of the clergy, reforms even in the highest sphere of ecclesiastical government. To obtain these ends it is necessary to create a current of opinion strong enough to induce the legitimate authorities to act in conformity with our views, be it twenty, thirty, or even fifty years hence. Now we who hold these opinions are widely dispersed, and, save in the case of those who publish articles or books, are ignorant of one another's views. Very probably a large number of pious and cultured people in the Catholic world feel as we do; and I believe it would afford the greatest assistance in the spreading of our opinions if we could, at least, know one another. To-night a few of us are to meet together for a first discussion."

While Giovanni spoke, the others kept their eyes fixed on the Genevese. The Abbe gazed steadily as his plate. A brief silence followed, and Giovanni was the first to break it.

"Has Professor Dane not told you this?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," replied the Abbe, raising his eyes from his plate at last; "he has told me something similar." The tone was that of one who only half approves. But, why, then, had he come? Don Paolo looked displeased; the others were silent. An embarrassing pause ensued. At last Marinier said:

"We will discuss this again to-night."

"Yes," answered Selva quietly; "we will discuss it again to-night."

He felt he had found an adversary in this abbe, and he thought Dane had committed an error both of judgment and of tact in inviting him to the meeting. At the same time he comforted himself with the tacit reflection that it would be an advantage to hear all possible objections set forth; and that a friend of Professor Dane was, at least, sure to be trustworthy, and would not divulge names and speeches it were better to keep secret for the present. Young di Leyni, on the other hand, was very apprehensive of this danger knowing how many and how various were the Abbe Marinier's acquaintances in Rome, where he had lived for five years, pursuing certain historical studies; and he was also annoyed at not having known of his coming in time to write to Selva, suggesting the advisability of seeking to propitiate him, beginning through his palate. The table at the Selvas', always exquisitely neat, and decorated with flowers, was most frugal, and very simple as regards food. The Selvas never drank wine, and the pale, acid wine of Subiaco could only have a souring effect on a man accustomed to French vintages. The girl from Affile had already served the coffee, when, at the same moment, Don Clemente arrived on foot from Santa Scolastica, and Dane, Professor Salvati, and Professor Minucci, in a two-horse carriage, from Subiaco. But Don Clemente, who was followed by his gardener, seeing the carriage approaching the gate of the villa, and understanding that it brought guests for the Selvas, hastened his steps, that Giovanni might see the gardener and speak with him a few moments before the meeting.

The Selvas and their three companions had risen from the table, and Maria, coming out to the terrace on the arm of the gallant Abbe Marinier, saw, in spite of the growing darkness, the Benedictine on the steep path leading up from the gate which opened upon the public road. She greeted him from above, and begged him to wait for a light at the foot of the stairs. She herself descended the winding stairs with the light, and signed to Don Clemente that she wished to speak to him, casting a significant glance in the direction of the man standing behind him. Don Clemente turned, and requested him to wait outside under the acacias. Then, having ascended a few steps at the lady's silent invitation, he stopped to listen to what she had to tell him.

She spoke hastily of her three guests, particularly of the Abbe Marinier, saying she was much annoyed on account of her husband, who had such faith in this cherished idea of a Catholic association, and who would now find himself confronted with an unexpected opposition. She wished Don Clemente to know this that he might be prepared. She herself had come to explain to him, because her husband could not leave his guests at that moment. At the same time she would say good-night to Don Clemente, as she did not intend to be present at the meeting, being a woman and so ignorant. Perhaps she should meet him at the monastery in a few days. Was not he the Padre who received visitors? She would probably be going to Santa Scolastica in three or four days, with her sister—

At this point Signora Selva involuntarily raised the light to observe her companion's face more narrowly, but she at once repented of the action, as if she had failed in respect towards that soul which was surely holy, surely in harmony with the manly and virginal beauty of the tall slender person, with the head habitually held erect, in a pose almost military in its frank modesty; with the face so noble in its spacious forehead, in its clear blue eyes, expressing at the same time womanly sweetness and manly fire.

"There will also be an intimate friend of my sister's, a certain Signora Dessalle," she added, in a low voice, as if ashamed.

Don Clemente turned his head away, starting violently, and Maria, feeling the counter-shock, trembled. Then it was he? He at once turned towards her again, his face slightly flushed, but composed.

"Pardon me," said he, "what is the lady's name?"

"Whose, Signora Dessalle's?"

"Yes."

"Her name is Jeanne."

"About what age is she?"

"I do not know. I should say from thirty to thirty-five."

Maria was now completely at a loss to understand. The Padre put these questions with such indifference, such calmness! She herself risked a question.

"Do you know her, Padre?"

Don Clemente made no answer. At this point poor, gouty Dane arrived, having dragged himself up from the gate with great difficulty, leaning on Professor Minucci's arm. They were both intimate friends, and Signora Selva welcomed them kindly, but in a somewhat absent manner.

* * * * *

The meeting was held in Giovanni's little study. It was very small and as—out of regard for Dane and his rheums—the windows could not be opened, the fiery Don Fare felt he should stifle, and said as much, in his outspoken Lombard fashion. The others pretended not to have heard, except Leyni who signed to him not to insist, and Giovanni, who opened the door leading to the corridor, and the one beyond opening upon the terrace. Dane at once perceived an odour of damp woods, and the doors had to be closed again. An old petroleum lamp was burning on the writing-desk. Professor Minucci, who had weak eyes, asked timidly for a shade; which was looked for, found, and put in place. Don Paolo grumbled under his breath: "This is an infirmary!" His friend Leyni, who also thought these numerous petty cares should be set aside at such a moment, experienced an unpleasant sensation of coldness. Giovanni experienced the same sensation, but in a reflex manner, for he knew the impression that those present, who were strangers to them, must receive of Dane and perhaps also of Minucci. He himself knew them well. Dane, with all his colds and his nerves and his sixty-two years, possessed, besides great learning, an indomitable vigour of mind and a steadfast moral courage. Andrea Minucci, in spite of his disordered fair hair, his spectacles, and a certain awkwardness in his movements, which gave him the appearance of a learned German, was a youthful and most ardent soul, tried in the fire of life, not sparkling on the surface like the soul of the Lombard, but enveloped in its own flame, severe, and, probably, stronger.

Giovanni began speaking in a frank, open way. He thanked those present for coming, and excused the absent ones, the monk and the priest, at the same time expressing regret for their absence. He said that in any case their adherence was insured, and he insisted upon the importance of their adherence. He added, speaking louder and more slowly, and fixing his eyes on the Abbe Marinier, that for the time being he deemed it prudent not to divulge anything regarding either the meeting, or any measures which might be adopted; and he begged all to consider themselves bound in honour to silence. He then explained, rather more fully than he had done at supper, the idea he had conceived, and the object of the meeting,

"And now," he concluded, "let each one express his opinion."

A profound silence followed. The Abbe Marinier was about to speak when Dane rose feebly to his feet. His pale, fleshless face, refined and full of intellect, wore a look of solemn gravity. "I believe," said he in Italian, which sounded foreign and formal, but which was nevertheless warm with feeling, "that finding ourselves, as we now do, united at the beginning of a religious movement, we should at once do two things. The first is to concentrate our souls in God, silently each in his own way, until we feel the presence in us of God Himself, the desire of Him, His very glory, in our hearts. I will now do this, and I beg you to do it with me."

So saying, Professor Dane crossed his arms over his breast, bent his head, and closed his eyes. The others rose, and all save Abbe Marinier clasped their hands. The Abbe, with a sweeping gesture which embraced the air, brought them together on his breast. The soft complaining of the lamp, a step on the floor below could be distinctly heard. Marinier was the first to glance up furtively, to ascertain if the others still prayed. Dane raised his head, and said:

"Amen."

"The second thing!" he added. "We propose to ourselves to obey in all things the legitimate ecclesiastical authority—"

Don Paolo Fare burst out, exclaiming: "That must depend!"

The vibration of sudden thought, the muffled rumbling of unspoken words, shook all present. Dane said slowly: "Exercised according to just principles." The movement shrunk to a murmur of assent, and then ceased. Dane went on: "And now one thing more! Let there never be hatred of any one on our lips nor in our hearts!"

Don Paolo burst out again: "No, not hatred but indignation! 'Circumspiciens eos cum ira!'"

"Yes," said Don Clemente in his sweet, soft voice; "when we shall have enthroned Christ within us; when we shall feel the wrath of pure love."

Don Paolo, who was near him, made no answer; he looked at him, his eyes suffused with tears, and, seizing his hand, carried it to his lips. The Benedictine drew back, startled, his face aflame.

"And we shall not enthrone Christ within us," said Giovanni, much moved, and pleased with the mystic breath he seemed to feel passing over the assembly, "If we do not purify our ideas of reform through love; if, when the time comes to operate, we do not first purify our hands and our instruments. This indignation, this wrath of which you, Don Paolo, speak, is really a powerful snare which the evil one uses against us; powerful precisely because it bears the semblance of virtue and sometimes, as is the case with the saints really has the substance of virtue. In us it is nearly always pure malevolence, because we do not know how to love. The prayer I love best, after the Pater Noster, is the prayer of Unity, which unites us all in the spirit of Christ, when He prays thus to the Father: 'Ut et ipsi in nobis unum sint.' The desire and hope are always strong within us of a union in God with those of our brothers whose beliefs separate them from us. Therefore say now whether you accept my proposal to found this association. First discuss the question, and then, if the proposal be accepted we will examine the means of promoting it."

Don Paolo exclaimed impetuously, that the principle needed no discussion; and Minucci observed, in a submissive tone, that the object of the meeting was known to all before they came; therefore, by their presence, they had implied their approval and their willingness to bind themselves together in a common action; the question of ways and means remaning still undecided. Abbe Marinier asked permission to speak. "I am really very sorry," he said smiling, "but I have not brought even the smallest thread with which to bind myself. I also am one of those who see many things going wrong in the Church. Still, when Signor Selva carefully explained his views to me (first at supper and then here), views which I had not clearly understood from my friend Professor Dane's explanation, certain objections, which I consider serious, forced themselves upon me."

"Exactly," thought Minucci, who had heard how ambitious Marinier was; "if you look for promotion, you must not join us;" and he added aloud: "Let us hear them."

"In the first place, gentlemen," the clever Abbe said, "it seems to me you have begun with the second meeting. I may say, with all due respect, that you remind me of a party of good people who sit down to a game of cards, and cannot get on because one holds Italian, one French, another German cards, and therefore they cannot understand one another. I have heard unanimity of opinions mentioned; but there exists perhaps among us rather a unanimity of negative opinions. We are probably unanimous in believing that the Catholic Church has grown to resemble a very ancient temple, originally of great simplicity, of great spirituality, which the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries have crowded with superfluities. Perhaps the more malicious among you will say that only a dead language may be spoken aloud in this temple, that living languages may only be whispered there, and that the sun itself takes on false colours when it shines through the windows. But I cannot believe we are all of one mind as regards the quantity and quality of the remedies to be applied. Therefore before initiating this catholic freemasonry, I think it would be wiser to come to an understanding respecting these reforms. I will go even farther; I believe that, were it possible to establish perfect harmony of opinion among you, it would still be inexpedient to bind yourselves together with visible fetters, as Signor Selva proposes. My objection is of a most delicate nature. You doubtless expect to be able to swim in safety, below the surface, like wary fishes, and you do not reflect that the vigilant eye of the Sovereign-Fisherman, or rather Vice-Fisherman, may very easily spy you out, and spear you with a skilful thrust of the harpoon. Now I should never advise the finest, most highly flavoured, most desirable fishes to bind themselves together. You will easily understand what might happen should one be caught and landed. Moreover, you know very well that the great Fisherman of Galilee put the small fishes into his vivarium, but the Great Fisherman of Rome fries them."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Don Paolo with a laugh. The others maintained a frigid silence. The Abbe continued:

"Furthermore, I do not believe any good can be achieved through this league. Associations may be useful in helping to raise salaries, they may promote industries and commerce; but science and truth, never. Reforms will surely be brought about some day, because ideas are stronger than men, and are always pressing forward; but by arraying them in armour, and marching them forward in companies, you expose them to a terrible fire, which will check their progress for a long time to come. Science and religion progress only through the individual, through the Messiah. Have you a saint among you? Do you know where to look for one? Then find him and let him march forward. Fiery language, broad charity, two or three little miracles, and your Messiah alone will achieve more than all of you together."

The Abbe was silent, and Giovanni rose to speak.

"Perhaps the Abbe," said he, "has not yet been able to form a true conception of the value of the union we desire. We have just prayed together, seeking to stand united in the Divine Presence. This is sufficient to indicate the character of our union. In consideration of the ills afflicting the Church—which in substance are the result of discord between her mutable human element and her immutable element of Divine Truth—we wish, in our desire that He may remove these discords, to become one in the God of Truth; and we wish to feel ourselves united. Such a union has no need of community of opinion on certain subjects, although many of us hold many opinions in common. We do not propose to create a collective movement, either public or private, in order to bring about this or that reform. I am old enough to remember the time of the Austrian domination. If the Lombard and Venetian patriots called us together in those days to talk of politics, it was by no means always in order to conspire, nor to determine revolutionary acts; it was to enable us to communicate news, to become acquainted, to keep the flame of the idea alive. This is what we wish to do in the religious field. The Abbe Marinier may rest assured that that negative accord of which he spoke will amply suffice. We must strive to widen it, that it may embrace the majority of the intelligent faithful; that it may even reach the Hierarchy. He will see that positive accord will ripen in it, mysteriously, as the seed of life ripens in the decaying body of the fruit. Yes, yes, the negative accord is sufficient. The feeling that the Church of Christ is suffering is sufficient to unite us in the love of our Mother, and to move us at least to pray for her, we and our brothers who, like us, feel her sufferings! What is your answer, Abbe?"

The Abbe murmured with a faint smile:

"C'est beau, mais ce n'est pas la logique."

Don Paolo started up:

"Logic has nothing to do with it." "Ah!" Marinier replied, assuming a contrite expression, "if you intend to forego logic——!"

Don Paolo, all on fire, wished to protest, but Professor Dane signed to him to be calm.

"We do not intend to forego logic," said he, "but it is not as easy to measure the logical value of a conclusion in questions of sentiment, of love of faith, as it is to measure the logical value of a conclusion in geometrical problems. In the questions which interest us the logical process is hidden. Surely my dear friend Marinier, one of the most acute-minded men I know, when he answered my dear friend Selva, did not intend to imply that when a person very dear to us falls ill, it is necessary for us to decide what method of treatment to adopt before hastening to his bedside together."

"These are very fine figures," said the Abbe Marinier with vehemence; "but you are all aware that similes are not arguments!"

Don Clemente, standing in the corner between the door leading into the corridor and the window, and Professor Minucci, seated near him, began to speak at the same moment, but both stopped short; each wishing to allow the other to speak first. Selva proposed that the monk be heard first. All eyes were fixed on that noble face, the face of an archangel: Don Clemente's colour deepened, but he held his head erect. After a moment of hesitation he spoke in his soft, modest voice. "The Abbe Marinier made an observation which seemed to me very just. He said that we need a saint. I also believe this, I do not despair of finding one, for perhaps, even now, he exists. Who knows?"

"Himself," murmured Don Paolo.

"Now," Don Clemente went on, "I wish the Abbe Marinier to understand this: that we are, in a manner, the prophets of this saint, of this Messiah, preparing the way for him; which simply means that we point out the necessity of a renovation of all that, in our religion, is outward clothing, and not the body of truth, even should such a renovation cause suffering to many consciences. Ingemiscit et parturit! We must point out this necessity, standing the while on absolutely Catholic ground, looking for the new laws from the old authorities, bringing proofs that if these garments which have been worn so long and in such stormy times, be not changed, no decent person will come near us; and God forbid that some among us should be driven to cast them off without permission, out of a loathing not to be borne. I wish furthermore to say, if the Abbe Marinier will permit me, that we have very few human fears."

A murmur of hearty assent answered him, and Minucci started up, every nerve vibrating. While the Abbe Marinier had been speaking, di Leyni and Selva had watched Minucci, who was fuming, with knitted brows; and Giovanni, knowing well the violent temper of this ascetic mystic, had intended to give him time to control himself by requesting Don Clemente to speak first. He now sprang up excitedly. His words did not flow smoothly, their very impetus causing them to tremble and break, and, broken, they poured from his lips in a torrent, precise, nevertheless, and powerful, with their vigorous Roman accent.

"That is true! We have no human fears. We are striving for things too great, and we desire them too intensely to feel human fears! We wish to be united in the living Christ, all among us who feel that the understanding of the Way, the Truth, and the Life—is—is—is—growing, yes, is growing in our hearts, in our minds! And this understanding bursts so many—what shall I call them?—so many bonds of ancient formulas which press us, which suffocate us; which would suffocate the Church were the Church mortal! We wish to be united in the living Christ, all among us who thirst—who thirst, Abbe Marinier! who thirst! thirst!—that our faith, if it lose in extent, may gain in intensity—gain a hundredfold—for God's glory! And may it irradiate from us, and may it, I say, be as a purifying fire, purifying first Catholic thought and then Catholic action! We wish to be united in the living Christ, all among us who feel that He is preparing a slow but tremendous reformation, through the prophets and the saints; a transformation to be accomplished by sacrifice, by sorrow, by the severing of affections; all who know that the prophets are consecrated to suffering, and that these things are revealed to us not by flesh and blood, but by God Himself, dwelling in our souls. We wish to be united, all of us, from many lands, and to regulate our course of action. Catholic freemasonry? Yes; the freemasonry of the Catacombs. You are afraid, Abbe? You fear that many heads will fall at one blow? I answer. Where is the sword mighty enough for such a blow? One at a time, all in turn may be struck; to-day, for instance, Professor Dane; to-morrow, Don Fare; the next day, this Padre here. But should the day come on which Abbe Marinier's fantastic harpoon should bring up, all bound by a common cord, famous laymen, priests, monks, bishops, perhaps even cardinals, what fisherman is there great or small, who would not be terrified, and who would not cast back into the water harpoon and all the rest? Moreover, I must beg you to pardon me, Abbe Marinier, if I ask you and other prudent persons like you, where is your faith? Would you hesitate to serve Christ from fear of Peter? Let us band together against the fanaticism which crucified Him and which is now poisoning His Church; and if suffering be our reward, let us give thanks to the Father: 'Beati estis cum persecuti vos fuerint et dixerint omne malum adversum vos, mentientes, propter me.'"

Don Paolo Fare started to his feet and embraced the orator. Di Leyni fixed upon him eyes aflame with enthusiasm. Dane, Selva, Don Clemente, and the other monk were silent and embarrassed, feeling—especially the three ecclesiastics—that Minucci had gone too far, that his words concerning the extent and intensity of faith, concerning the fear of Peter, were not weighed; that the whole tone of his discourse was too aggressive, and not in harmony with Dane's mystical exhortation, or with the language Selva had used in delineating the character of the proposed association. The Genevese abbe had never for a moment removed his small bright eyes from Minucci's face while he was speaking. He watched Don Paolo's demonstration with an expression of mingled irony and pity; then he rose:

"Very well," he said; "I do not know whether my friend Dane, in particular, shares this gentleman's views. Indeed, I am inclined to doubt it. The speaker mentioned Peter. In truth it seems to me the present company is preparing to leave Peter's bark, in the hope perhaps of being able to walk upon the waves. I humbly declare that my faith is not sufficient, and I should sink at once. I intend to remain in the bark, at the most plying a small oar, according to my light, for, as this gentleman says, I am very timid. It is therefore necessary for us to part, and it only remains for me to beg you to pardon my coming. I feel the need of a stroll to aid my digestion. Dear friend," said he addressing Dane, "we shall meet at the Aniene." He approached Selva to bid him good-night, his hand extended. At once the entire company, with the exception of Don Paolo and Minucci, gathered round him, urging him to remain. He insisted quietly, checking his over-zealous assailants with a cold smile, a delicately sarcastic phrase, or a graceful gesture. Di Leyni turned to Fare, motioning to him to join the others; but the fiery Don Paolo responded only by an emphatic shrug and a scowl of irritation. In the meantime, a Tuscan voice was heard above the clamour of Marinier's assailants.

"Stia bono!" it said. "As yet nothing has been decided! Wait! I have not yet spoken!"

The speaker was Father Salvati, a Scolopio, and an old man with snowy hair, a florid complexion, and bright eyes.

"Nothing has as yet been decided," he repeated. "I, for one, approve of uniting, but I have one special end in view, while the discourses I have heard seem to me to favour a very different end. Intellectual progress is good, renovation of the formulas according to the spirit of the times is also good, a Catholic reform is excellent. I hold with Rafaello Lambruschini, who was a great man; with the 'Pensieri di un solitario'; but it appears to me that Professor Minucci is advocating a reform of an eminently intellectual nattire, and that——"

Here Dane lifted his small, white, refined hand,

"Allow me, Father," he said. "My dear friend Marinier sees that the discussion is reopened. I beg him to resume his seat." The Abbe raised his eyebrows slightly, but obeyed. The others also sat down, quite satisfied. They had little faith in the Abbe's discretion, and it would have been a great misfortune had he left ab irato. Father Salvati resumed his discourse.

He was opposed to giving an eminently intellectual character to the movement of reform, not so much on account of the danger from Rome as of the danger of troubling the simple faith of a multitude of quiet souls. He wished the Union to set itself first of all a great moral task, that of bringing back the faithful to the practice of gospel teachings. To illumine hearts was, in his eyes, the first duty of those who aspired to illumine minds. Speaking with all due respect, it was obviously less important to transform Catholic faith in the Bible, than to render Catholic faith in the word of Christ efficacious. It must be shown that, in general, the faithful praise Christ with their lips, but that the heart of the people is far from Him; it must further be shown how much egoism enters into a certain form of fervent piety which many believed to be a source of sanctification.

Here Don Paolo and Minucci protested, grumbling: "This has nothing to do with the question."

Salvati exclaimed that it had much to do with it, and he begged them to listen to him patiently. He continued, alluding to a general perversion of the sense of Christian duty as regards the desire for, and the use of, riches; a perversion it would be very difficult to eradicate, it having—In the course of centuries, and with the full sanction of the clergy—taken deep root in the human conscience.

"The times, gentlemen," the old monk exclaimed, "demand a Franciscan movement. Now I see no signs of such a movement. I see ancient religious orders which no longer have power to influence society. I see Christian democracy, both administrative and political, which is not in the spirit of St. Francis; which does not love holy poverty. I see a society for the study of Franciscan thought—simply an intellectual pastime! I believe that we should promote a Franciscan movement; that is, if we desire Catholic reform.."

"But how?" Fare demanded, while Minucci, much vexed, grumbled: "It's not that at all!"

Selva felt that the souls which had been united by a first impulse were drifting apart again. He felt that Dane, Minucci, and probably also Fare, wished, as did he himself, to initiate an intellectual movement, and that this Franciscan flash had come out of season and was out of place. It was all the more inopportune in that it was hot with living truth. For undoubtedly there was much truth in Padre Salvati's words: he recognised this, he, who had often debated in his own mind if it had not been wiser and for the greater good of the Church to promote a moral agitation rather than an intellectual one. But he himself did not feel qualified for this Franciscan apostolate, nor could he discover the necessary qualifications in any of his friends; not even in the most zealous of all, Luigi Minucci, a recluse, an ascetic, shunning the world like Selva himself. Salvati's arguments served to demolish, but not to build up. Giovanni secretly felt the irony of applying them either to Marinier or to Dane, of whom it was well known that their tastes were anything but Franciscan, that their palates were fastidious, their nerves delicate, and their affections lavished on parrots and little dogs. If anything was to be achieved, a line of defence must at once be adopted.

"Dear Padre Salvati must pardon me," he began, "if I observe that his discourse—so warm with the true Christian spirit—is ill-timed. I gather that he is with us in desiring a Catholic reform. To-night only a proposal is before us; the proposal to form a sort of league among all those who cherish the same desire. Let us then decide this point."

The Scolopio would not yield. He could not understand an inactive league, and action, according to the ideas of the intellectualists, did not suit him. The Genevese abbe exclaimed:

"Je l'avais bien dit!"

And he rose, determined this time to depart. But Selva would not allow this, and proposed closing the meeting, intending again to summon Professor Dane, Minucci, di Leyni, and Fare, on the morrow, or perhaps later on. Salvati was intractable, and It would be wiser to let Marinier carry away the impression that the plan was abandoned. Minucci guessed his motive, and was silent; but the thoughtless Don Paolo did not understand, and insisted that they should deliberate and vote at once. Selva, and di Leyni also—out of respect for Giovanni's wishes—persuaded him to wait. Nevertheless he continued to fume, his vexation directed mainly against the Swiss. Dane and Don Clemente were dissatisfied, each for a reason of his own; Dane being at heart vexed with Marinier, and sorry he had brought him; while Don Clemente would have liked to say that Padre Salvati's words were very beautiful and holy, and not out of season, because it was right that each should labour according to his vocation, the intellectualist in one way, the Franciscan in another. He who called them would provide for the co-ordination of their actions. The different vocations might well be united in the League. He would have liked to say this, but he had not been prepared, and had let the right moment pass; partly from mental shyness, fearing he should not speak well, partly out of consideration for Selva, who evidently wished to cut the meeting short. It was cut short, for all rose, and all, save Dane and Giovanni, went out to the terrace.

The Abbe Marinier proposed going to Santa Scolastica and the Sacro Speco on the morrow, returning perhaps to Rome by way of Olevano and Palestrina, that road being new to him. Could any one show him the way from the terrace? Don Clemente pointed out the road. It was the same that he had followed as he came from Subiaco. It passed just below them, crossed the Anio a little to the left, by the Ponte di S. Mauro, turned to the right, and then rose towards the hills of Affile, over yonder. The air rose to them laden with the odours of the woods, of the narrow gorge below the convents, from whence the river issued. The sky was overcast save just above the Francolano. There, over the great black mountain, two stars trembled; Minucci called di Leyni's attention to them.

"See how those two little stars flash," said he.

"Dante would say they are the 'little flames' of San Benedetto and Santa Scolastica, glittering because they perceive, in the shadow, a soul akin to theirs."

"You speak of saints?" said Marinier, drawing near. "A few minutes ago I inquired whether you had a saint among you, and I expressed the hope that you might possess one. These were simply oratorical figures, for I know well enough that you have no saint. Had you one, he would immediately be cautioned by the police, or sent to China by the Church."

"Well," di Leyni replied, "what if he were cautioned?"

"Cautioned to-day, he would be imprisoned to-morrow." "And what of that?" the young man repeated. "How about St. Paul, Abbe Marinier?"

"Ah! my friend! St. Paul, St. Paul—"

By this unfinished sentence the Abbe Marinier probably meant to convey that St. Paul was St. Paul. Di Leyni, on the other hand, reflected that Marinier was Marinier. Don Clemente remarked that not all saints could be sent to China. Why should not the saint of the future be a layman?

"I believe he will be," exclaimed Padre Salvati, The enthusiastic Don Fare, on the contrary, was convinced that he would be a Sovereign Pontiff. The Abbe laughed. "A simple and excellent idea," said he. "But I hear the carriage coming that is to take Dane and myself, and any one else who wishes to join us, to Subiaco, so I will go and take leave of Signor Selva."

He leaned over the parapet to gather a small branch of the olive, planted on the terrace of the ground floor.

"I should offer him this," he said, "and to you, gentlemen, as well," he smilingly added, with a graceful gesture, and then entered the house.

The noise of a two-horse carriage on the road below could in fact be heard. It rounded the cliff upon which the villa stood, and stopped at the gate. A few moments later Maria Selva and Dane, in his heavy overcoat and huge black broad-brimmed hat, came out on the terrace; Giovanni and the Abbe followed.

"Who is coming with us?" Dane asked. No one answered. Above the deep rumbling of the Anio, voices and steps could be heard approaching the villa from the gate. Minucci, who was standing at the eastern end of the terrace, looked down, and said:

"Ladies. Two ladies."

Maria gasped. "Two ladies?" she exclaimed. Hastening to the parapet she perceived two white figures ascending slowly; they were at the first turning of the steep little path. It was impossible to recognise the figures, they were still too far away, and it was too dark. Giovanni observed that they were probably people coming to the first floor to see the proprietors of the house. Professor Dane smiled mysteriously.

"They may be coming to the second floor," said he.

Maria exclaimed:

"You know something about this!" and called down:

"Noemi, est-ce vous?"

Noemi's clear voice answered:

"Oui, c'est nous!"

Another female voice was heard saying aloud to her:

"What a child! You should have kept quiet!"

Maria gave a little cry of joy and disappeared, running down the winding stairway.

"You knew, Professor Dane?" Selva asked. Yes, Dane knew. He had made Signora Dessalle's acquaintance at her villa in the Veneto—the villa containing the frescoes by Tiepolo—and had recently seen her in Rome. Her brother, Signor Carlino Dessalle, had remained in Florence. She and Signorina d'Arxel, wishing to surprise the Selvas, had forbidden him to tell. The name Dessalle recalled to Selva's mind in a flash what he had not at first remembered—the presence of Don Clemente, the suspicion that he was this woman's missing lover, and the necessity of preventing a meeting, which might prove terrible to both. He was, of course, unaware of the conversation which had taken place between his wife and the Padre. In the meantime they heard Maria hastening down the path, and then joyous exclamations and greetings. Dane, uneasy lest he had stayed too long on the terrace, proposed going downstairs. The ladies had certainly availed themselves of the carriage which was coming for him. Don Clemente also seemed very uneasy. Hiding his own agitation, Selva hastily took his arm.

"If you do not care to meet these ladies," he said, "come with me at once, and I will let you out through the Casino, by the upper path." The Padre seemed greatly relieved, and the two started off in haste, the Benedictine even forgetting to say good-night.

"It is late, too" said he. "When I asked the Father Abbot's permission, I said I should be back at half-past nine."

They ran down the widening stairway, but when they reached the little open space where the acacias stood, Jeanne Dessalle, Maria, and Noemi were just entering it from the opposite direction.

It was not too dark under the acacias for Maria to recognise her husband and Don Clemente in the two figures coming from the house. Being in advance of her sister with Jeanne, she promptly turned to the right, making her companion turn with her, and directed her steps towards the little Casino, an addition to the villa, and standing with its back to the larger house. Selva, on his part, seeing his wife's movement, promptly whispered to the Padre:

"Go down the straight path at once."

But it was all to no purpose.

All to no purpose, because Noemi, astonished at seeing her sister turn to the right, stopped short, exclaiming:

"Where are you going?" and Don Clemente, having perhaps noticed a lady standing in his way, instead of passing her and going down, went to summon the gardener, who was waiting for him in the darkest corner of the little opening, where the side of the house meets the hill. He called "Benedetto!" and then turning to Selva said: "Would you like to show him the little field?" "At this hour?" Giovanni answered, while his wife whispered to Noemi: "Some visitors are just leaving, let us stay here at the Casino until they have passed," shaking her head at her so emphatically the while, that Signora Dessalle noticed the action, and at once suspected some mystery.

"Why?" she said. "Are they dangerous?" and slackened her pace. Noemi, on the other hand, having understood her sister's wish, but not her secret motive, was over-zealous in seconding her; and clasping her two companions round the waist, she pushed them towards the Casino. Jeanne Dessalle was instinctively moved to rebel, and turning upon her, exclaimed: "What are you doing?" Then she saw Selva coming towards them. He hastened to greet them, spreading out his arms as if to hide Don Clemente, who, followed by the gardener, passed rapidly within five paces of Jeanne, and descended the steep path.

Noemi, who had also turned at her brother-in-law's greeting, ran to embrace him; Selva in the meantime, feeling gratified that Don Clemente had avoided a meeting. Selva, releasing himself from Noemi's embrace, extended his hand to Jeanne, who did not see it, and murmured absently some incomprehensible words of greeting. At that point Dane, Marinier, Fare, di Leyni, and Padre Salvati issued from the villa. The Selvas went to meet them, leaving Noemi and Signora Dessalle to await their return. The parting compliments lasted some time. Dane wished to pay his respects to Signora Dessalle, but Maria, not seeing her where she had left her, supposed that she and Noemi had gone into the house, passing behind them, so she promised to be the bearer of the professor's greetings. At last, when the five had started down the hill accompanied by Giovanni, Maria heard Noemi calling her:

"Maria! Maria!"

A peculiar note in her sister's voice told her something had happened. She ran back, and found Signora Dessalle seated on a bundle of fagots, in the corner where the gardener from Santa Scolastica had stood, not five minutes before, and repeating in a weak voice: "It is nothing, nothing, nothing! We will go in directly, we will go in directly!" Noemi, greatly agitated, explained that her friend had suddenly felt faint while those gentlemen were talking, and that she had with difficulty been able to drag her as far as the bundle of fagots.

"Let us go in, let us go in," Jeanne repeated, and rising with an effort, dragged herself as far as the villa, supported by her two friends. She sat down on the steps waiting for some water, of which she took only a sip. She would have nothing else, and was presently sufficiently restored to ascend the stairs very, very slowly. She apologised at each halt, and smiled, but the maid who, walking backwards, led the way with the light nearly fainted herself, at sight of those dazed eyes, those white lips, and that terrible pallor. They led her to the sofa in the little salon; and after a minute of silent relaxation with closed eyes, she was able to tell Signora Selva, still smiling, that these attacks were caused by anaemia, and that she was accustomed to them. Noemi and Maria spoke softly together. Jeanne caught the words "to bed" and with a look of gratitude, consented by a nod. Maria had prepared the best room in the little apartment for Jeanne and Noemi—the corner room opposite Giovanni's study, on the other side of the corridor. While Jeanne was walking painfully towards it, leaning on Noemi's arm, Selva returned, having accompanied his friends as far as the gate. His wife heard his step on the stairs, and went down to detain him. They spoke, in the dark, with hushed voices. Then it was really he; but how could she have recognised him? Indeed Giovanni had attempted to place himself between Jeanne and Don Clemente at the critical moment, and the Padre had passed her almost running; but he, Giovanni, had at once suspected something, for Signora Dessalle had stood like a statue, not giving him her hand, and hardly responding to his greeting. On the terrace the Padre himself had shown uneasiness when he heard that Signora Dessalle had arrived. His desire to avoid her had been evident; but he was quite master of his feelings. Oh! yes, he was quite master of his feelings. Maria was of the same opinion, and she told of her conversation with him at the foot of the stairway. Husband and wife slowly ascended the stairs, absorbed in contemplation of this extraordinary drama, of the poor woman's crushing grief, of the terrible impression the man must have borne away with him, and—now that it was over—of the night both must pass, wondering what would happen to-morrow, what he would do, what she would do.

"It is well to pray over such matters, is it not?" said Maria.

"Yes, dear, it is. Let us pray that she may learn to give her love and her sorrow to God," the husband answered.

Hand in hand they entered their bedroom, which was divided in two by a heavy curtain. They went to the window and looked up at the sky, praying silently. A breath of the north wind soughed like a lament through the oak overhanging the tiny chapel of Santa Maria della Febbre.

"Poor creature!" said Maria. It seemed to her and to her husband that their affection for one another was more tender than ever to-night, but nevertheless—though neither said so—both felt that there was something deterring them from the kiss of love.

Jeanne, as soon as Noemi had closed the door of their room behind them, fell upon her neck in a paroxysm of uncontrollable sobbing. Poor Noemi had concluded, from the effect produced on her friend when the monk hastened past her, that he was Maironi, and she was now overcome with pity. She spoke most loving, tender, and sweet words to her, in the voice of one soothing a suffering child. Jeanne did not answer, but her sobbing continued.

"Perhaps it is better so, dear," Noemi ventured to say. "Perhaps it is better for you to know, that you may no longer cherish a false hope; better for you to have seen him in that habit."

This time an answer came between the sobs, "No, no!" Jeanne repeated passionately and vehemently many times, and the tone, though hardly sorrowful, was so strange that Noemi was greatly puzzled. She resumed her soothing, but more timidly now.

"Yes, dear! yes, dear! because knowing there is no help—-"

Jeanne raised her tear-stained face, "Do you not understand? It is not he!" she said.

Noemi drew away from her embrace, amazed,

"What do you mean? Not he—! All this scene because it is not he?"

Jeanne again fell upon her neck.

"The monk who passed me, is not he," she said sobbing; "it is the other man!"

"What other man?"

"The one who was following him, who went away with him!"

Noemi had not even noticed this person. With a convulsive laugh Jeanne nearly suffocated her in a close embrace.



CHAPTER III. A NIGHT OF STORMS

On his way down from the villa to the gate, Don Clemente asked himself with secret anxiety: "Did he recognise her, or not? And if he did, what impression did she make?" On reaching the gate he turned to him he had called Benedetto, and scrutinised his face closely—a fleshless, pallid, intellectual face, in which he read no sign of agitation. The eyes met his wonderingly, almost as if questioning: "Why do you look at me thus?" The monk said to himself: "Probably he did not recognise her, or he supposes me to be unaware of her arrival." He passed his arm through his companion's, holding him close, and in silence turned to the left towards the dark and noisy gorge of the Anio. When they had walked on a few paces under the trees which border the road, he said: "Do you not wish to question me about the meeting?" There was more tenderness in his tone than the commonplace words demanded. His companion answered:

"Yes, tell me about it."

The voice was husky and devoid of interest. Don Clemente said to himself: "He certainly recognised her!" Then he talked of the meeting, but as one preoccupied with other thoughts, without warmth, without details; nor did his companion once interrupt him with questions or comments.

"We separated," he said, "without having come to any conclusion; this was partly owing to the arrival of some foreigners. So I was not able to arrange with Signor Giovanni about you. But I think some of us, at least, will meet again tomorrow. And you yourself," he added hesitatingly, "do you, or do you not feel inclined to return?"

Benedetto, walking steadily on, answered in the same submissive tone as before: "Are the foreign ladies I saw going to remain?"

Don Clemente pressed his arm very hard.

"I do not know," he said, adding, much moved, and with another pressure of the arm: "If I had only known—!"

Benedetto opened his lips to speak, but checked himself. They proceeded thus in silence towards the two black cliffs in the noisy ravine, and leaving the main road, which turns to cross the Anio by the Ponte di San Mauro, took the mule-path leading to the convents, which winds up to the cliff on the left. The enormous, slanting mass of rock before them seemed to Don Clemente at that moment the symbol of a demoniacal power standing in Benedetto's way; so, too, the gathering darkness seemed to him symbolically threatening, and threatening also the ever-increasing, ever-deepening roar of the lonely river.

Beyond the oratory of San Mauro, where the mule-path to the convents turns to the left, running along the side of the hill towards the Madonnina dell' Oro, and another mule-path leads straight into the ravine, past the ruins of the Baths of Nero, Benedetto disengaged himself gently from the monk's arm, and stopped.

"Listen, Padre," said he; "I must speak with you; perhaps at some length."

"Yes, my friend, but it is late; let us go into the monastery."

Benedetto lived at the Ospizio for pilgrims, the farmhouse, which is reached from a courtyard communicating by a great gate with the public way and by a small gate with the corridor of the monastery, leading from the public way to the church and to the second of the three cloisters.

"I had rather not return to the monastery tonight, Padre," said he.

"You had rather not return?"

On other occasions during the three years he had spent in the free service of the monastery, Benedetto had obtained permission from Don Clemente to spend the night in prayer, out among the hills. Therefore the master at once concluded that his disciple was passing through one of those periods of terrible inward struggle, which forced him to flee from his poor couch and from the shadows of his room, accomplices, these, of the evil one, in tormenting his imagination,

"Listen to me, Padre!" said Benedetto.

His tone was so firm, so laden with the gravity of coming words, that Don Clemente judged it wiser not to insist upon the lateness of the hour. Hearing the beat of hoofs above them, and knowing the riders were coming in their direction, the two stepped aside on to the small, grassy plateau, upon which still remain humble remnants of Neronian grandeur, which, with some arches hidden in the thick grove of hornbeams on the opposite bank, once formed part of the same Terme, but are now divided by the complaining of the Anio far below. Above those arches once dwelt the priest of Satan, and the shameless women, who assailed the sons of St. Benedict with their wiles. The monk thought of Jeanne Dessalle. There, at the end of the ravine, high up above the hills of Preclaro and of Jenne Vecchio, shone the two stars which had bean spoken of on the Selvas' terrace as "holy lights."

They waited for the riders to pass. When they had done so, Benedetto, in silence, fell upon his master's neck. Don Clemente, full of wonder and noticing that he trembled and was shaken by convulsive starts, concluded that the sight of that woman had caused this emotion, and, kept repeating to him:

"Courage, dear friend, courage; this is a trial sent by the Lord!" Benedetto whispered to him:

"It is not what you think."

Having controlled his feelings, he begged the master to sit down upon a ruined wall, against which he himself—kneeling on the grass—rested his folded arms.

"Since this morning," said he, "I have been warned by certain signs that the Lord's will concerning me is changed; but I have not been able to understand in what way. You know what happened to me three years ago in that little church where I was praying, while my poor wife lay dying?"

"You allude to your vision?"

"No; before the vision—having closed my eyes—I read on my eyelids the words of Martha: 'Magister adest et vocat te!' This morning, while you were saying Mass, I saw the same words within me. I believed this to be an automatic revulsion of memory. After the communion I had a moment of anxiety, for it seemed to me Christ was saying in my soul: 'Dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand?' I passed the day in a state of continual agitation, although I strove to tire myself more than usual in the garden. In the afternoon I sat reading a short time under the ilex tree, where the Fathers congregate. I had St. Augustine's De Opere Monachorum. Some people passed on the upper road, talking in loud voices. I raised my head mechanically. Then, I cannot tell why, but instead of resuming my reading, I closed the book and fell to thinking. I thought of what St. Augustine says about manual labour for monks, I thought of the order of St. Benedict, of Rance, and of how the Benedictine order might again return to manual labour. Then, in a moment of weariness, but with my heart still full of the immense grandeur of St. Augustine, I believed I heard a voice from the upper world crying: 'Magister adest et vocat te!' Perhaps it was only an hallucination, only because of St. Augustine, only some unconscious memory of the 'Tolle, lege'; I do not deny this, but, nevertheless, I trembled, trembled like a leaf. And I asked myself fearfully, Does the Lord wish me to become a monk? You know, Padre mio—I have repeated it to you on two or three occasions—that in one particular, at least, this would correspond with the end of my vision. But when you counselled me, as did also Don Giuseppe Flores, not to put faith in this vision, I told you that, to me, another reason for not putting faith in it was that I do not feel myself worthy to be a priest, and, furthermore, that the idea of joining any religious order is strangely repugnant to me. But what if God should enjoin it upon me! What if this great repugnance be but a trial! I wished to speak to you when we were on our way to the Selvas', but you were in haste to be there, and so it was not possible. There, seated on the bundle of fagots under the acacias, I received the last blow. I was weary, very weary, and for five minutes allowed myself to be overcome by sleep, I dreamt that I was walking with Don Giuseppe Flores under the arches of the courtyard at Praglia. I said to him weeping: 'Here, it was here!' And Don Giuseppe answered with great tenderness: 'Yes, but do not think of that, think rather that the Lord calls you.' And I replied: 'But whither, whither does He call me?' My anguish was so great that I awoke. I heard a voice calling from the top of the house, and some one answered in French from the bottom of the garden. I saw a lady leave the villa, running. I heard the greetings she exchanged with the new-comers; I distinguished her voice! At first I was not sure of it, but presently, the voices coming nearer, I could no longer doubt. It was she! For a second I was dazed, but only for a second. Then a great light shone out in my mind."

Benedetto raised his head and his clasped hands. His voice rang with mystic ardour. "Magister adest," said he. "Do you understand? The divine Master was with me, I had naught to fear, Padre mio! And I feared naught, neither her, nor myself. I saw her coming up to the open space. My thought was: 'If we meet alone, I will speak to her as to a sister, I will beg her forgiveness; perhaps God will give me a word of truth for her. I will show her that I have hopes for her soul, and that I do not fear for my own." Don Clemente could not refrain from interrupting him.

"No, no, no, my son!" he exclaimed, greatly alarmed; and while he held the young man's face imprisoned between his hands, he was casting about in his mind for a means of preventing such a meeting, and of getting Benedetto away. The Selvas, the Selvas! they must be warned!

"I can understand why you speak thus to me," Benedetto resumed, breathlessly; "but if I meet her, must I not seek to give her of the good that is in me, as I once sought to give her of the evil? And have not you yourself taught me that placing the saving of our own souls above all things is incompatible with the love of God above all things? That when we love truly we do not think of ourselves? That we strive only to do the will of the person beloved, and desire that others do the same? That thus we are sure of salvation, and that he who constantly has in mind the saving of his own soul risks losing it?"

"That is very true, very true, my dear friend," answered the Padre, stroking his hair. "But nevertheless to-morrow you must go to Jenne, and remain there until I send for you. I will give you a letter to the parish priest, who is a most worthy man, and you can stay with him. Do you understand? And now we will go to the monastery, for it is late!"

He rose and obliged Benedetto to do the same. Above their heads the clock of Santa Scolastica was ringing the hour. Was it ten o'clock, or was it eleven? Don Clemente had not counted the strokes from the beginning, and feared the worst; for with all these conflicting emotions he had lost account of time. What was going to happen? Who could have foreseen? And what would take place now? They left the grassy plateau and started up the steep and rocky mule-path, Don Clemente in front, and Benedetto following close behind; both silent and with stormy souls, while the deep voice of the Anio answered their thoughts. At a bend of the path they see the lights of distant Subiaco. Only a few, however, so it is probably eleven o'clock! Presently a dark corner of the inclosure of Santa Scolastica looms before the wayfarers. Benedetto is thinking by what a mysterious way God has led him from the logge at Praglia, where Jeanne tempted and conquered him, to this toilsome ascent amidst the gloom towards another holy spot, with Jeanne near, and his heart anchored in Christ.

In the meantime, the reasons for practical prudence which pressed upon Don Clemente at this time of distress, and the reasons for ideal holiness which in calmer moments he had taught his beloved disciple, were contending for supremacy over Benedetto's will, no longer so steadfast as in the beginning; the first striving at close quarters, and with imperious violence; the second, from a distance and by means only of their stern and sad beauty. It seemed to him the two "holy lights" high above the dark angle of the inclosure were watching him sternly and sadly. Oh! unholy earth, he thought; oh! sad earth! And, perhaps, unholy prudence, sad prudence—earthly prudence!

Upon reaching the corner, the two wayfarers turned to the left, leaving the deep roar of the Anio behind them. They passed the great gate of the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and traversed the long, dark passage which runs beneath the library, reached a low door. Don Clemente rang the bell. They would be obliged to wait some time, for at nine o'clock, or shortly after, all the keys of the monastery were taken to the Abbot.

"Then you will allow me to remain outside?" Benedetto asked.

On other occasions when the master had granted him this permission, he had climbed the bare heights of Colle Lungo above the monastery, and passed the night in prayer, either there, or on the heights of Taleo, or on the rocky hillside which is crossed in going from the oratory of Santa Crocella to the grove of the Sacro Speco. The master hesitated a moment; he had not thought of this wish of Benedetto's again. And precisely to-day his disciple had looked to him more emaciated, more bloodless, than usual; he feared for his health, which was much impaired by the fatigues of labour in the fields, by penance, and by a life devoid of comfort. This the master told him.

"Do not consider my body," the young man pleaded humbly and ardently. "My body is infinitely remote from me! Fear rather that I may not do all that is possible to ascertain the Divine Will!"

He added that he would also pray for light concerning this meeting, and that he had never felt God so near as when praying on the hills. The master took his face between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Go," said he.

"And you will pray for me?"

"Yes, nunc et semper."

Steps in the corridor. A key turns in the lock. Benedetto vanishes like a shadow.

* * * * *

Good old Fra Antonio, the doorkeeper of the monastery, did not betray the fact that he had expected to see Benedetto also, and, with that dignified respect in which were blended the humility of an inferior and the pride of an old and honest retainer, he told Don Clemente that the Father Abbot was waiting for him in his private apartment. Don Clemente, carrying a tiny lantern, went up to the great corridor, out of which the Abbot's rooms and his own opened.

The Abbot, Padre Omobono Ravasio of Bergamo, was waiting for him in a small salon dimly lighted by a poor little petroleum lamp. The salottino, in its severe, ecclesiastical simplicity, held nothing of interest, save a canvas by Morone—the fine portrait of a man; two small panels with angels' heads, in the style of Luini; and a grand piano, loaded with music. The Abbot, passionately fond of pictures, music, and snuff, dedicated to Mozart and Haydn a great part of the scant leisure he enjoyed after the performance of his duties as priest and ruler. He was intelligent, somewhat eccentric, and possessed of a certain amount of literary, philosophical, and religious learning which, however, stopped short with the year 1850, he having a profound contempt for all learning subsequent to that date. Short and grey-haired, he had a clever face. A certain curtness of manner, and his rough familiarity, had astonished the monks, accustomed to the exquisitely refined manners of his predecessor, a Roman of noble birth. He had come from Parma, and had assumed his duties only three days previously.

Don Clemente knelt before him and kissed his hand.

"You have strange ways here at Subiaco," said the Abbot. "Is ten o'clock the same as eleven o'clock to you?"

Don Clemente apologised. He had been detained by a duty of charity. The Abbot invited him to be seated,

"My son," said he, "are you sleepy?" Don Clemente smiled without answering.

"Well," the Father Abbot continued, "you have wasted an hour of sleep, and now I have my reasons for robbing you of a little more. I intend to speak to you about two matters. You asked my permission, to visit a certain Selva and his wife. Have you been there? Yes? Can you assure me that your conscience is at rest?"

Don Clemente answered unhesitatingly, but with a movement of surprise:

"Yes, most certainly."

"Well, well, well," said the Abbot, and took a large pinch of snuff with evident satisfaction. "I do not know these Selvas, but there are people in Rome who do know them, or, at least, think they do. Signor Selva is an author, is he not? Has he not written on religion? I fancy he is a Rosminian, judging by the people who are opposed to him; people unworthy to tie Rosmini's shoe-strings; but let us discriminate! True Rosminians are those at Domodossola, and not those who have wives, eh? Very well then, this evening after supper I received a letter from Rome. They write me—and you must know my correspondent is one of the mighty—that precisely to-night a conventicle was to be held at the house of this false Catholic, Selva, who had summoned to it other malignant insects like himself; that probably you would wish to be present, and that I was to prevent your going. I do not know what I should have done, for when the Holy Father speaks I obey; if the Holy Father does not speak, I reflect. But, fortunately for you, you had already started. There are really some good people who will ferret out heretics in Paradise itself! Now you tell me that your conscience is quiet. Am I not then to believe what the letter says?"

Don Clemente replied that there had certainly been neither heretics nor schismatics at Signor Selva's house. They had talked of the Church, of her ills, and of possible remedies, but in the same spirit in which the Abbot himself might speak.

"No, my son," the Abbot answered. "It is not for me to reflect upon the ills of the Church, or upon possible remedies. Or rather, I may reflect upon these matters, but I must speak of them only to God, that He Himself may then speak of them to the proper persons. And do you do the same. Bear this in mind, my son! The ills exist, and perhaps the remedies also exist, but—who knows?—these remedies may be poisons, and we must let the Great Healer apply them. We, for our part, must pray. If we did not believe in the communion of saints, what would, there be to do in the monasteries? So for the sake of our peace of mind, my son, do not return to that house. Do not again ask permission to go there."

The Abbot had ended in a paternal tone, and now laid an affectionate hand upon his monk's shoulder. Don Clemente was much grieved at the thought of not seeing his good friends again, and especially not to be able to confer with Signor Giovanni the next day, to warn him of Benedetto's danger, and to consult with him concerning a means of defence.

"They are Christians of gold," he said sadly, and in submissive tones.

"I believe you," replied the Abbot. "They are probably far better than the zealots who write these letters. You see I speak my mind. You come from Brescia, eh? Well, I come from Bergamo. In either place they would be called piaghe—festers! They are indeed festers of the Church. I shall answer in a fitting tone. My monks take no part in meetings of heretics. But, nevertheless, you will not revisit the Selvas."

Don Clemente kissed the hand of the fatherly old man resignedly.

"And now I come to the other question," said the Abbot. "I learn that a young man whom you installed there has lived for three years at the Ospizio for pilgrims, where, as a rule, only the herder should have a permanent abode. Oh, I know, of course, that my predecessor sanctioned what you did! This young man is greatly attached to you, you are his spiritual director, and you encourage him to study in the library. It is true that he also works in the kitchen-garden, true that he displays great piety, that he is a source of edification to all, still—as he does not appear to have any intention of becoming a monk—his presence at our Ospizio, where he has had a place for three years, Is somewhat irregular, What can you tell concerning this matter? Come, let us hear."

Don Clemente knew that some of his brother monks—and not the oldest, but precisely the youngest among them—did not approve of the hospitality the late Abbot had extended to Benedetto. Neither was the attachment existing between himself and Benedetto entirely to their taste. Don Clemente had already had trouble on this account. He now at once perceived that certain brothers had lost no time, but had already tried to influence the new Abbot. His fine face flushed hotly. He did not answer immediately, wishing first to quell the anger burning within him by an act of mental forgiveness. At last he assured the Abbot that it was both, his duty and his wish to enlighten him.

"This young man," he began, "Is a certain Piero Maironi of Brescia. You must surely have heard of the family. His father, Don Franco Maironi, married a woman without birth or money. His parents were already dead at the time, and he lived with his paternal grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, an imperious and proud woman."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Abbot, "I knew her! A perfect terror! I remember her well. In Brescia they called her the 'Marchesa Haynau' [Footnote: In allusion to the terrible Austrian, General Haynau, who, on account of his cruelty to the Italian patriots, was surnamed the "Hyena of Brescia."—TRANSLATOR.] She had twelve cats and wore a great black wig! I remember her well!"

"I knew her only by reputation," Don Clemente continued, smiling, while the Abbot, with a sort of guttural purr, took a generous pinch of snuff, to rid himself of the bad taste this unpleasant memory had left.

"Well, the grandmother would not hear of this ill-assorted marriage. The young couple therefore were guests in the house of the bride's uncle, she being also an orphan. He, Don Franco, enlisted in 1859, and died of the wounds he received. His wife died soon after. The little boy was cared for by the grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, and, after her death, by certain Venetian relations of hers, of the name of Scremin. The grandmother left him very wealthy. He married a daughter of these Scremins,' who, unfortunately, went mad soon after her marriage, I believe. Piero felt this affliction keenly, and led a life of retirement until he had the misfortune to come in contact with a woman separated from her husband. Then a period of transgression set in; he transgressed morally and in matters of faith. At last (it seems like a miracle performed by the Lord Himself) the wife in her dying moments recovered her reason, summoned her husband, spoke with him, and then died the death of a saint. This death turned Piero's heart towards God; he left the woman, renounced his rights, left everything, and fled from his home in the night, telling no one whither he was going. Having met me once at Brescia, where I had gone to visit my sick father, and knowing I was at Subiaco, he came here. He was, moreover, fond of our Order, and cherished certain memories connected with our poor Praglia. He told me his story, entreating me to help him lead a life of expiation. I supposed he aspired to enter the Order. But he told me that, on the contrary, he did not feel himself worthy; that he had not as yet been able to ascertain the Divine Will on this point; that he wished, in the meantime, to do penance, to labour with his hands, to earn his bread—only a crust of bread. He told me other things; he spoke of certain incidents of a supernatural character which had happened to him. I at once told the late Father Abbot about him, and we decided to lodge him in the Ospizio, to let him work within the inclosure, helping the kitchen-gardener, and to provide him with the frugal fare he craved. In three years he has never once tasted coffee, wine, milk, or eggs. He has touched nothing save bread, polenta, fruit, herbs, oil, and pure water, He has led the life of a saint, all can assure you of that. Still he believes himself the greatest sinner on earth!"

"Hm!" the Abott ejaculated thoughtfully, "Hm! I see! But why does he not join the Order? Then, another thing: I know he has passed several nights outside the inclosure."

Don Clemente felt his face once more aflame. "In prayer," he said.

"That may be, but perhaps some may not believe it. You know what Dante says:

Ad ogni ver che ha faccia di menzogna Dee l'uom chiuder la bocca quant'ei puote, Pero che senza colpa fa vergogna." [Footnote:Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood A man should close his lips as far as may be, Because without his fault it causes shame. —Longfellow's Translation of the "Inferno."]

"Oh!" Don Clemente exclaimed, blushing, in his modest dignity, for those who were capable of harbouring vile suspicions.

"Forgive me, my son!" said the Abbot. "He is not accused, the appearances alone are criticised. Do not vex yourself. It is wiser to pray in the house! And these incidents of a supernatural character—pray tell me about them."

Don Clemente said they were visions—voices heard in the air.

"Hm! Hm!" ejaculated the Abbot, with a complicated play of wrinkled forehead, eyebrows, and lips, as if he were swallowing a mouthful of vinegar.

"You said his name was—? His real name?"

"Piero, but when he came here he wished to part with that name, and begged me to give him another. I chose 'Benedetto'—it seemed the most appropriate." At this point the Abbot expressed a wish to see Signor Benedetto, and desired Don Clemente to send him to him on the following morning after the office in the choir. At this Don Clemente was somewhat embarrassed, and had to confess that he could not promise to do so, because, as it happened, the young man had gone out among the hills to pass the night in prayer, and he did not know precisely at what hour he would return. The Abbot was greatly annoyed, and mumbled a series of reproaches and caustic remarks. Don Clemente therefore decided to tell him of the meeting with Signora Dessalle, the former mistress; of what had followed on the way home, of his determination to send Benedetto to Jenne, and to oblige him to remain there until the woman had gone. The Father Superior kept up a continuous, low grumbling, and heard him with knitted brows.

"Here," he exclaimed at last, "you are going back to the days of St. Benedict! to the wiles of shameless women! Let your Benedetto go, let him go, let him go! To Jenne and farther still! And you were not going to tell me this? Did it seem a matter of slight consequence? Was it of no consequence that intrigues of this sort should be carried on round the monastery? Now go; go, I say!"

Don Clemente was about to answer that he had not known of any intrigue, nor if the woman had recognised his disciple; that at any rate he had already informed Benedetto of his intention of sending him away; but he silenced this useless self-justification and, kneeling, took leave of the Abbot.

Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other passage leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the anticipation of the resolutions he might form, after communing with his God; the covert hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot's frowns and doubts; the fear that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart. Benedetto's mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating with Signor Giovanni, a new lucidity of thought which flashed from him in conversation, the growing strength of their mutual affection, had awakened in him hopes of a revelation of Divine Grace, of Divine Truth, of Divine Power for the saving of souls, to be made, at no distant period, through this outcast of the world. They had said at the meeting at Signor Selva's house, "A saint is needed." The first to affirm this had been the Swiss Abbe. Others had said that the saint should be a layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto's repugnance to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the convent. But what was happening out on the hills? What words was God uttering in his heart? And if—

This unexpected, formidable if flashing into his mind stopped the ponderer in his slow walk. "Magister adest et vocat te!" Perhaps the Divine Master Himself was even now calling Benedetto to serve Him in the habit of a monk.

He ceased thinking, terrified, and, having set the tiny lantern down, passed from the chapter-hall into the church, directing his steps towards the chapel of the Sacrament. With that dignity of which no internal storm could rob his refined bearing and the lofty beauty of his face, he sank upon his knees at the desk which stands in the centre of the chapel, between the four columns, under the lamp, raising his eyes to the tabernacle.

The Teacher of the Way, of Truth, of Life, the Beloved of the soul, was there, and sleeping, as He had slept on that stormy night on the Lake of Gennesaret, between Gadara and Galilee, in the bark which other wave-tossed barks followed through the roaring darkness. He was there, praying as on that other night, alone, on the hillside. He was there, saying with His sweet eternal voice: "Come unto Me all ye who suffer, all ye who are heavy laden, come unto Me." He was there and speaking, the living Christ: "Believe in Me, for I am with you; I am your strength, and I am peace. I the Humble, son of the Almighty; I the Meek, son of the Terrible; I who prepare hearts for the kingdom of justice, for the future union of all with Me in My Father." He, the Merciful, was there in the tabernacle, breathing the ineffable invitation: "Come, open thy heart; give thyself up to Me!"

And Clemente gave himself up, confiding to Him what he had never confessed even to himself. He felt that everything in the ancient monastery was dying, save Christ in the tabernacle. As the germ-cell of ecclesiastical organism, the centre from which Christian warmth irradiates upon the world, the monastery was becoming ossified by the action of inexorable age. Within its walls noble fires of faith and piety, enclosed—like the flames of the candles burning on the altars—in traditional forms, were consuming their human envelope, their invisible vapours rising towards heaven, but sending no wave of heat or of light to vibrate beyond the ancient walls. Currents of living air no longer swept through the monastery, and the monks no longer, as in the first centuries, went out in search of them, labouring in the woods and in the fields, co-operating with the vital energies of nature while they praised God in song. His talks with Giovanni Selva had brought him indirectly, and little by little, to feel thus regarding the monastic life in its present form, although he was convinced that it has indestructible roots in the human soul. But now, perhaps for the first time, he looked his belief squarely in the face. For a long time his wish and his hope had been that Benedetto might become a great gospel labourer; not an ordinary labourer, a preacher, a confessor, but an extraordinary labourer; not a soldier of the regular army, hampered by uniform and discipline, but a free champion of the Holy Spirit. The monastic laws had never before appeared to him in such fierce antagonism with his ideal of a modern saint. And now, what if the Divine Will concerning Benedetto should reveal itself contrary to his desires?

Ah! was he not already almost on the verge of committing mortal sin? Had he not been about to judge the ways of God, he presumptuous dust? Prostrate upon the kneeling-stool, he sought to merge himself in the Almighty, praying silently for forgiveness, for a revelation to Benedetto of the Divine Will, and ready to worship it, whatever it might be, from this time forth. As he rose, with a natural ebbing of the mystic wave from his heart, his eyes still turned towards the altar, but no longer fixed upon the tabernacle, he could not refrain from thinking of Jeanne Dessalle and of what Benedetto had said. The very indifferent picture above the altar represented the martyr Anatolia offering, from Paradise, the symbolical palms to Audax, the young pagan who had attempted to seduce her, but whom, instead, she had led to Christ. Jeanne Dessalle had seduced Benedetto; of this Don Clemente had no doubts, notwithstanding Benedetto's attempt to exonerate her and accuse himself. What if she should now be converted through him? Was it perhaps right that he should try? Was Benedetto's impulse really more Christian than his own fears and the Abbot's scruples? As he crossed the church with bowed head, Don Clemente's mind was struggling with these questions. Anatolia and Audax! He remembered that a sceptical foreigner, upon hearing the explanation of the picture from him, had said: "Yes, but what if neither of them had been put to death? And what if Audax had been a married man?"

These jesting words had seemed to him an unworthy profanation. He thought of them again now, and, sighing, took up the little lantern he had left on the floor in the chapter-hall.

Instead of going towards his cell he turned into the second cloister to look at the ridge of the Colle Lungo, where, perhaps, Benedetto was praying. Some stars were shining above the rocky, grey ridge, spotted with black, and their dim light revealed the square of the cloister, the scattered shrubs, the mighty tower of Abate Umberto, the arcades, the old walls, which had stood for nine centuries, and the double row of little stone friars ascending in procession upon the arch of the great gate where Don Clemente stood, lost in contemplation. The cloister and the tower stood out majestic and strong against the darkness. Was it indeed true that they were dying? In the starlight the monastery appeared more alive than in the sunlight, aggrandised by its mystic religious communing with the stars. It was alive, it was big with many different spiritual currents, all confused in one single being, like the different wrought and sculptured stones, which, united, formed its body; like different thoughts and sentiments in a human conscience. The ancient stones, inclosing souls which love had mingled with them, saturated with holy longings and holy sorrows, with groans and prayers, radiated a dim something which penetrated the subconsciousness. They had the power of infusing strength into those of God's labourers who, in arid moments, withdrew from the world, seeking brief repose among them, as a spring of water infuses strength into the reaper on the lonely hills. But in order that the life of the stones might continue, a ceaseless living stream must flow through them, a stream of adoring and contemplating spirits. Don Clemente felt something akin to remorse for the thoughts he had harboured in the church about the decrepitude of the monastery; thoughts which had sprung from his own personal judgment, pleasing to his self-esteem, and therefore tainted by that arrogance of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning the young man's future. He praised God should He choose to let him remain a layman; he praised God should He choose to make him a monk, should He reveal His will, or should it remain hidden. "Si vis me esse in luce sis benedictus, si vis me esse in tenebris sis iterum benedictus." And then he sought his cell.