As he passed the Abbot's door in the broad corridor where the two dim lamps were still burning, he thought of the talk he had had with the old man, of those maxims of his concerning the ills affecting the Church, and the wisdom of struggling against them. He remembered something Signor Giovanni had said about the words "Fiat voluntas tua," which the majority of the faithful understand only as an act of resignation, and which really point out the duty of working with all our strength for the triumph of Divine Law in the field of human liberty. Signor Giovanni had made his heart beat faster, and the Abbot had made it beat more slowly: which had spoken the word of life and of truth?

His cell was the last one on the right, near the balcony which overlooks Subiaco, the Sabine Hills, and the shell-shaped tract watered by the Anio. Before entering his cell Don Clemente stopped to look at the distant lights of Subiaco; he thought of the little red villa, nearer but not discernible; he thought of the woman. Intrigues, the Abbot had said. Did she still love Piero Maironi? Had she discovered, did she know that he had sought refuge at Santa Scolastica? Had she recognised him? If so, what did she propose to do? Probably she was not staying in the Selvas' very small lodging, but was at some hotel in Subiaco. Were those distant lights fires in an enemy's camp? He made the sign of the cross, and entered his narrow cell, for a short rest until two o'clock, the hour of assembly in the choir.

Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. Beyond the further corner of the monastery he crossed the dry bed of a small torrent, reached the very ancient oratory of Santa Crocella on the right, and climbed the rocky slope which tumbles its stones down towards the rumbling Anio and faces the hornbeams of the Francolano, rising, straight and black, to the star-crowned cross on its summit. Before reaching the arch which stands at the entrance to the grove of the Sacro Speco, he left the road, and climbed up towards the left, in search of the scene of his last vigil, high above the square roofs and the squat tower of Santa Scolastica. The search for the stone where he had knelt in prayer on another night of sorrow distracted his thoughts from the mystic fire which had enveloped him, and cooled its ardour. He soon perceived this and was seized with a heavy sense of regret, with impatience to rekindle the flame, enhanced by the fear of not succeeding in the attempt, by the feeling that it had been his own fault, and by the memory of other barren moments. He was growing colder, ever colder. He fell upon his knees, calling upon God in an outburst of prayer. Like a small flame applied in vain to a bundle of green sticks, this effort of his will gradually weakened without having moved the sluggish heart, and left him at last in vague contemplation of the even roar of the Anio. His senses returned to him with a rush of terror! Perhaps the whole night would pass thus; perhaps this barren coldness would be followed by burning temptation! He silenced the clamour of his fervid imagination, and concentrated his thoughts on his determination not to lose courage. He now became firmly convinced that hostile spirits had seized upon him. He would not have felt more sure of this had he seen fiendish eyes flashing in the crevices of the neighbouring rocks. He felt conscious of poisonous vapours within him; he felt the absence of all love, the absence of all sorrow; he felt weariness, a great weight, the advance of a mortal drowsiness. Once more he fell into stupid contemplation of the noise of the river, and fixed his unseeing eyes upon the dark woods of the Francolano. Before his mental vision passed slowly, automatically, the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of harlots. He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the ground. Again he was the slow automaton. With a painful effort he rose to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft, sweet-smelling grass, pushing up between the stones. He closed his eyes in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour, of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black, plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. His heart beat fast, fast, ever faster; a thread, only a thread of will-power held him back on the downward slope leading him to answer the invitation of that face. With wide eyes, his arms extended, his hands spread open, he uttered a long groan. Then, suddenly fearing some nocturnal wayfarer might have heard him, he held his breath, listening. Silence: silence in all things save the river. His heart was growing more calm. "My God! my God!" he murmured, horrified at the he had been in, at the abyss he had crossed. He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred, cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below with its squat, friendly tower, which he loved. In spirit he passed through the shadows and the roofs; he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle, of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily. With an effort he pictured to himself the cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks' couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master. He continued in this effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his thoughts on the prayer from the Imitation: "Domine, dummodo voluntas mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi placuerit." He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him. His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams, the faint scent of the grass which still clung to his clasped hands upon the grass, before Jeanne's sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously he unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery. No, no, God would not allow him to be conquered! God had chosen him to do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master's counsels, he had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica; images of the vision, a written description of which he had confided to Don Giuseppe Flores.

He saw himself in Rome at night, on his knees in Piazza San Pietro, between the obelisk and the front of the immense temple, illumined by the moon. The square was deserted; the noise of the Anio seemed to him the noise of the fountains. A group of men clad in red, in violet and in black, issued forth from the door of the temple and stopped on the steps. They fixed their gaze upon him, pointing with their forefingers towards Castel Sant' Angelo, as if commanding him to leave the sacred spot. But now it was no longer the vision, this was a new imagining. He was standing, straight and bold, before the hostile band. Suddenly behind him he heard the rumbling of hastening multitudes pouring into the square in streams from all the adjacent streets. A human wave swept him along, and, proclaiming him the reformer of the Church, the true Vicar of Christ, set him upon the threshold of the temple. Here he faced about, as if ready to affirm his world-wide authority. At that moment there flashed across his mind the thought of Satan offering the kingdoms of the world to Christ. He fell upon the ground, stretching himself face downward on the rock, groaning in spirit: "Jesus, Jesus, I am not worthy, not worthy to be tempted as Thou wast!" And he pressed his tightly closed lips to the stone, seeking God in the dumb creature. God! God! the desire, the life, the ardent peace of the soul! A breath of wind blew over him, and moved the grass about him.

"Is it Thou?" he groaned. "Is it Thou, is it Thou?"

The wind was silent.

Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head, and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not. Sighing he rose to a sitting posture. God will not speak to him. His weary soul is silent, barren of thought. Time creeps slowly on. To refresh itself, the weary soul makes an effort to recall the last part of the vision, its soaring flight through a stormy nocturnal sky to meet descending angels. And he reflects dimly: "If this fate awaits me, why should I repine? Though I be tempted I shall not be conquered, and though I be conquered still God will raise me up again. Neither is it necessary to ask what His will is concerning me. Why not go down, and sleep?"

Benedetto rose, his head heavy with leaden weariness. The sky was hidden by thick clouds as far as the hills of Jenne, where the valley of the upper Anio turns. Benedetto could hardly distinguish the black shadow of the Francolano opposite, or the livid, rocky slope at his feet. He started down, but stopped after a few steps. His legs would not support him, a rush of blood set his face aflame. He had scarcely broken his fast for thirty hours, having eaten only a crust of bread at noon. He felt millions of pins pricking him, felt the violent beating of his heart, felt his mind becoming clouded. What was that tangle of serpents winding themselves about his feet, in the disguise of innocent grasses? And what sinister demon was that, waiting for him down there, crouching on all fours on a rock, disguised as a bush and ready to jump upon him? Were not the demons waiting for him at the monastery also? Did they not nest in the openings of the great tower? Was there not a black flame flashing in those openings? No, no, not now; now they were staring at him like half-closed and mocking eyes. Was this the rumbling of the Anio? No, rather the roaring of the triumphant abyss. He did not entirely credit all he saw and heard, but he trembled, trembled like a reed in the wind, and the millions of pins were moving over his whole body. He tried to free his feet from the tangle of serpents, and did not succeed. From terror he passed to anger: "I must be able to do it!" he exclaimed aloud. From the gloomy gorge of Jenne, the dull rumble of thunder answered him. He glanced in that direction. A flash of lightning rent the clouds and disappeared above the blackness of Monte Preclaro. Benedetto tried again to free his feet from the serpents, and again the leonine voice of the thunder threatened him.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself, trying to understand. "Why do I wish to go down?" He no longer knew, and was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the reason. That was it! He had decided to go down and sleep, because one sure of the kingdom of heaven has no need of prayer. Then, like the lightning flashing round him, came a flash within him:

"I am tempting God!"

The serpents pressed him tighter; the demon crept towards him on all fours, up the rocky slope, all hellishly alive with fierce spirits; the black flames burst forth in the openings of the great tower, the abyss the while howling, triumphant! Then the sovereign roar of the thunder rumbled through the clouds: "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God!" Benedetto raised his face and his clasped hands towards heaven, worshipping as best he might with the last glimmer of clouded consciousness. He swayed, spread wide his arms, clutching the air. Slowly he bent backwards, fell prostrate upon his back on the hillside, and then lay motionless.

* * * * *

His body, motionless midst the rush of the thunderstorm, lay like an uprooted trunk, among the straining gorse and the waving grass. His soul must have been sealed by the central contact with the Being without time and without space, for when Benedetto first regained consciousness he had lost all sense of place and of time. His limbs felt strangely light; he experienced a pleasant sensation of physical exhaustion, and his heart was flooded with infinite sweetness. First upon his face, then upon his hands, he felt innumerable slight touches, as though loving, animate atoms of the air were gently tickling him; he heard a faint murmur of timid voices round what seemed to be his bed. He sat up and looked about him, dazed, but at peace; forgetful of the where and the when, but perfectly at peace and filled with content by the quiet, inner spring of vague love, which flowed through all his being, and overflowed upon surrounding things, upon the sweet little lives about him, that thus came to love him in turn. Smiling at his own bewilderment, he recognised the where and the how. The when he could not recognise, nor did he desire to do so. Neither did he question whether hours or minutes had passed since his fall, so content was he in the blessed present. The storm had rolled down towards Rome. In the murmur of the rain falling softly, without wind; in the great voice of the Anio, in the restored majesty of the mountains, in the wild odour of the damp rocky slope, in his own heart, Benedetto felt something of the Divine mingling with the creature, a hidden essence of Paradise. He felt that he was mingling with the souls of things, as a small voice mingles with an immense choir, felt that he was one with the sweet-smelling hill, one with the blessed air. And thus submerged in a sea of heavenly sweetness, his hands resting in his lap, his eyes half closed, soothed by the soft, soft rain, he gave himself up to enjoyment, not however, without a vague wish that those who do not believe, those who do not love, might also know such sweetness. As his ecstasy diminished his mind once more recalled the reason of his presence on the lonely hill, in the darkness of night; recalled the uncertainties of the morrow, and Jeanne, and his exile from the monastery. But now his soul anchored in God, was indifferent to uncertainties and doubts, as the motionless Francolano was indifferent to the quiverings of its cloak of leaves. Uncertainties, doubts, memories of the mystic vision, departed from him in his profound self-abandonment to the Divine Will, which might deal with him as it would. The image of Jeanne, which he seemed to contemplate from the summit of an inaccessible tower, awakened only a desire to labour fraternally for her good. Calm reason having fully resumed its sway, he perceived that the rain had drenched his clothes and that it still continued to fall softly, softly. What should he do? He could not go back to the Ospizio for pilgrims, for the herder would be asleep, and he would not wake him to get in, nor would this, indeed, be easy to accomplish. He determined to seek shelter under the evergreen oaks of the Sacro Speco. He rose wearily, and was seized with dizziness. He waited a short time, and then crept down very, very slowly, towards the path which leads from Santa Scolastica to the arch at the entrance to the grove. Exhausted he let himself sink upon the ground there, in the dark shadow of the great evergreen oaks, bent and spreading upon the hillside, their arms flung wide; there between the dim light on the slope beyond the arch to the right, and the dim light on the slope in front of the grove to the left.

He longed for a little food, but dared not ask it of God, for it would be like asking for a miracle. He was prepared to wait for the dawn. The air was warm, the ground hardly damp; a few great drops fell, here and there, from the leaves of the evergreen oaks. Benedetto sank into a sleep so light that it hardly made him unconscious of his sensations, which it transformed into a dream. He fancied he was in a safe refuge of prayer and peace, in the shadow of holy arms extended above his head; and it seemed to him he must leave this refuge for reasons of which the necessity was evident to him, although he was unaware of their nature. He could go by a door opening on to the road which leads down to the world, or he could go by the opposite door, taking a path which rose towards sacred solitudes. He hesitated, undecided. The falling of a great drop near him made him open his eyes. After the first moment of numbness he recognised the arch on the right, where the road begins which leads down to Santa Scolastica, to Subiaco, to Rome; and on the left the path which rises toward the Sacro Speco. He noticed with astonishment that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn? Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at Santa Scolastica—one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it would be lighter still—for it no longer rained-were the sky not one heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.

It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour. Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.

"Oh, Benede!" he exclaimed, recognising Benedetto, "are you here?"

Benedetto begged for a drink of milk, for the love of God!

"You can explain to the monks," said he. "You can say I was exhausted, and asked for a little milk, for the love of God."

"Yes, yes! It is all right! Take it! Drink!" the man exclaimed, for he believed Benedetto to be a saint. "And have you passed the night out here? You were out in all that rain? Good Lord! how wet you are! You are soaked through like a sponge!" Benedetto drank.

"I thank God," he said, "for your Madness and for the blessing of the milk."

He embraced the man, and years afterwards the herder, Nazzareno Mercuri, used to tell that while Benedetto held him in his arms, he, Nazzareno did not seem to be himself; that his blood first turned to ice and then to fire; that his heart beat hard, very hard, as it did the first time he received Christ in the Sacrament; that a terrible headache which had tormented him for two days suddenly disappeared; that then he had realised he was in the arms of a saint, a worker of miracles; and that he had fallen on his knees at his feet! In reality he did not fall on his knees, but stood as one petrified, and Benedetto had to say twice to him: "Now go, Nazzareno; go, my dear son." Having despatched him thus lovingly on his way to the Sacro Speco, he himself started towards Santa Scholastica.

In the light of day the rocky slope held no spirits either good or evil. The mountains, the clouds, even the dark walls of the monastery, and the tower itself looked heavy with sleep in the pale dawn. Benedetto entered the Ospizio, and stretching himself on his poor couch, without removing his wet garments, he crossed his arms on his breast, and sank into a deep sleep.



CHAPTER IV. FACE TO FACE

I.

The rumbling of the thunder roused Noemi shortly after two o'clock; she had fallen asleep only a short time before. Her room was next to Jeanne's, and the door between them had been left open. Jeanne immediately called out to her. They had talked until two o'clock, when Noemi, quite exhausted, and after many vain efforts, had finally succeeded in persuading her indefatigable friend to leave her in peace. Now she pretended not to hear. Jeanne called again.

"Noemi! The thunder-storm! I am so frightened!"

"You are not a bit frightened!" Noemi answered irritably. "Be quiet! Go to sleep!"

"I am frightened! I am coming into your room."

"I forbid it!"

"Then you must come in here!"

Noemi's "Will you be quiet?" sounded so resolute that the other was silent.

Only for a moment, however; then the tearful, childish voice, that Noemi knew so well, began again:

"Have you not slept long enough? Can you not talk now? You must have slept three hours!"

Noemi struck a match and looked at her watch, holding which she had previously begged for silence.

"Twenty-two minutes!" she announced. "Be quiet!"

Jeanne was still for a moment, then she uttered those little hm!—hm!—hms!—which are always the prelude to tears in a spoilt child. And the complaining voice went on:

"You do not love me at all! Hm! Hm! For pity's sake let us talk a little! Hm! Hm! Hm!"

In her mother tongue, Noemi sighed:

"Oh! mon Dieu!"

With another sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable:

"Well, go ahead! But what can you say to me that you have not already said in the last four hours?"

The thunder roared, but Jeanne no longer noticed it.

"To-morrow morning we will go to the monastery," said she.

"Why yes, of course!"

"Only we two alone?"

"Yes, certainly, that is already settled."

The tearful voice was silent a moment, and then went on: "You have not yet promised not to tell anything here in the house."

"I've promised at least ten times!"

"You know what you are to say—do you not—if you are questioned about my fainting last night?"

"I know."

"You must say that the Padre was not he; that I was disappointed, and that was why I fainted."

"Gracious, Jeanne! This is the twentieth time you have said that!"

"How cruel you are, Noemi! How little you care for me!"

Silence.

Jeanne's voice began again:

"Tell me what you think. Do you really believe he has forgotten me?"

"I will not answer that again!"

"Oh! please answer! Just one word, then I will let you go to sleep!"

Noemi reflected a moment and then answered drily, hoping to silence Jeanne:

"Well, I think he has. I do not believe he ever loved you."

"You say that because I myself have said so to you!" Jeanne retorted violently, no longer in a tearful voice.

"You are no judge of that!"

"Bon ca!" Noemi grumbled. "C'est elle qui me l'a dit, et je ne dois pas le savoir!" Silence again.

The tearful voice once more:

"Noemi!"

No answer.

"Noemi, listen!"

Still no answer. Jeanne began to cry, and Noemi yielded.

"For heaven's sake! what Is it now?"

"Piero cannot know that my husband is dead."

"Well, and what of that?"

"Then he cannot know that I am free,"

"Well? How stupid you are! You make me angry!"

Silence. Jeanne knew the nature of her anger very well. Her friend's convictions were too much like her own, and she longed to have her painful presentiment contradicted, longed for a word of hope.

She laughed a low, forced laugh:

"Noemi, now you are pretending to be offended on purpose not to have to talk."

Silence.

Jeanne began again, very sweetly:

"Listen. Don't you believe he suffers temptations?"

Silence.

Jeanne, this time ignoring the fact that Noemi did not answer, exclaimed:

"It would be nice if he had just now stopped suffering from temptations!"

Her sarcasm is so comic, that—although she is greatly shocked—Noemi cannot help laughing; and Jeanne laughs with her. In spite of her mirth, Noemi reproaches Jeanne for saying such intensely foolish things without stopping to reflect. For Noemi knows her friend, and knows that the Jeanne of this hour is not the true Jeanne, self-possessed and mistress of herself; or rather perhaps it is the true Jeanne, but certainly not she who will stand before Piero Maironi, if, by any chance, they meet.

The thunder has ceased, and Jeanne would like to see what the weather is, but she dreads to leave her bed, fearing to feel ill again, fearing to discover she will not be able to go up to the monastery a few hours hence. She also fears the opposition of her hosts, should the weather prove too unpleasant. She is therefore anxious to see how the sky looks. Get up must Noemi, the slave whose acts of rebellion very seldom ended in victory. Noemi rises, opens the window, and examines the darkness, her hand extended. Tiny, frequent drops tickle her palm. The darkness grows less impenetrable as her eyes become accustomed to it. She distinguishes, down below, Santa Maria della Febbre, grey, against a black background. The mass of heavy mist grows lighter, and the arms of the oak towering on the right show black against it. The tiny, frequent drops continue to tickle her outstretched hand, which she finally withdraws. Jeanne questions.

"Well?" "It is raining."

She sighs "What a bother," as if it were going to rain for ever. And the tiny drops acquire a louder voice, fill the room with soft murmurs, and then are hushed once more. Jeanne does not understand the soft murmurs, does not understand that the man of whom her heart is full is lying unconscious, on the lonely, rocky, hillside, down which the rain washes.

Late on the following morning Signora Selva, somewhat anxious because neither of her guests had as yet appeared, entered her sister's room quietly. Noemi was nearly dressed, and signed to her to be silent. Jeanne had fallen asleep at last. The two sisters left the room together and went to the study where Giovanni was waiting for them. Well? Was Don Clemente really the man? The husband and wife were anxious to know in order to regulate their conduct accordingly. Giovanni no longer doubted, but his wife was not sure even now. Noemi! Noemi must know! Giovanni closed the door, while Maria, interpreting her sister's silence as confirmation, insisted: "Then it is really he, really he?"

Noemi was silent. She would perhaps have betrayed her friend's secret in order to conspire with the Selvas for Jeanne's happiness, had she not been deterred by a doubt of their agreeing with her, and by a sense of wavering in her own mind. Probably, as Catholics, the Selvas would not wish this man who had fled from the world to return to it. She, a Protestant, could not feel thus; at least she should not feel thus. She should rather believe that God is better served out in the world and in the married state. She did feel this, but she could not hide from herself that should Signor Maironi marry Jeanne now, she could feel little respect for him. At any rate it would be wiser to hide the strange truth.

"Well, what is it you think?" said she. "That the priest who was here last night, and who passed in front of us, after all that by-play of yours, was really the former lover? Is he your Don Clemente? Very well then, he is not the man."

"Ah! Really not?" Giovanni exclaimed, between surprise and incredulity. His wife triumphed.

"There!" said she.

But Giovanni would not yield. He asked Noemi if she were quite sure of what she said, and how she explained Signora Dessalle's fainting? Noemi answered that there was nothing to explain. Jeanne suffered from anaemia, and was subject to attacks of terrible weakness. Giovanni was silent, but he was not convinced. If this were really so, how could Noemi assert so positively that Don Clemente was not the man? In his sister-in-law's words, in her manner, in her face, Giovanni perceived something that was not natural. Maria asked how they had passed the night. How had Signora Dessalle rested? She had been uneasy? In what way uneasy?

"She was uneasy! What more can I say?" Noemi exclaimed rather irritably, and went to the open window as if to ascertain the intention of the clouds. Giovanni took a step towards her, determined to conquer her reticence. She had a presentiment of this, and, as an expedient, she asked what his predictions concerning the weather were.

The sky was completely overcast; low, heavy clouds rolled down from the crests of Monte Calvo upon the Cappuccini and the Rocca. The air was warm, the roar of the Anio loud. Far below, the road to Subiaco, like a winding ribbon and almost black with mud, was visible through the foliage of the olives. Giovanni answered;

"Rain."

Noemi at once asked how far it was from the little villa to the convents. It took twenty minutes to go to Santa Scolastica. But why did she ask? Upon hearing that Jeanne intended going there with Noemi that very morning, Maria protested. In such weather? You are obliged to walk the last part of the way. Could they not postpone their visit until to-morrow or the next day?

"When did she tell you?" Giovanni asked, almost sharply. Noemi hesitated before answering:

"In the night."

As soon as she had spoken the words she realised that they would arouse suspicion, especially after that moment of hesitation; she now awaited an attack, undecided whether to resist or surrender.

"Noemi!" Giovanni exclaimed severely.

She looked at him, her face slightly flushed; she was silent, not even saying, "Well, what is it?"

"Do not deny it," her brother-in-law went on.

"This woman recognised Don Clemente. Do not deny it, rather say so at once; it is a duty which your conscience must surely urge upon you! They must on no account be allowed to meet!"

"What I said is true," Noemi answered, having now decided on a line of action. In her tone, free from all trace of irritation and almost submissive, there lurked the implied confession that she had not told the whole truth.

"She did not recognise him? But surely you know something more?"

"Yes, I do know something more," Noemi replied; "but I must not tell you what I know. I can only ask you to warn Don Clemente that Signora Dessalle and I propose visiting the convents this morning. I will say nothing more, and now I am going to see if Jeanne is awake."

She left the room hastily. The Selvas looked at each other. What was the meaning of her wish to have Don Clemente warned? Maria read in her husband's thoughts something which displeased her, something she did not wish him to utter,

"You had better write the letter to Don Clemente," she said.

But Giovanni, before writing, wished to free his mind. There seemed to be only one explanation possible: Don Clemente was really the man. Noemi had promised Signora Dessalle not to say so, but she nevertheless wished to prevent a meeting. Maria exclaimed with some heat: "Oh! Noemi does not tell lies!" and then, crimsoning and smiling, she embraced her husband as if fearful of having offended him. For, once, she had offended him by some thoughtless words concerning the lack of truthfulness in Italians, and now perhaps her exclamation might have the effect of recalling the shadow of that cloud. He was indeed annoyed, more by the embrace than by the protest, and, remembering, he also crimsoned and maintained that in Noemi's place Maria herself would have denied everything. Maria was silent, and left the study, importunate tears welling up in her eyes. At first Giovanni was glad he had repulsed this offensive tenderness, and he began the note to Don Clemente. Before he had finished it, however, his irritation had turned to remorse, and he rose and went in search of his wife. She was in the corridor, speaking in low tones to Noemi. She turned her face towards him at once; understanding, she smiled, her eyes still wet, and signed to him to come nearer, and to speak softly. What was the matter? The matter was that Jeanne wished to start for Santa Scolastica at once. Noemi explained that she had only just awakened, and that at once meant an hour and a half at least. But they must send to Subiaco for a carriage, for Jeanne was in no condition to walk more than was absolutely necessary—more than the last part of the way. A ring of the bell called Noemi away. Jeanne was waiting for her with impatience.

"What a chatterbox of a maid!" she said, half jestingly and half irritably. "What have you been telling your sister?"

Noemi threatened to leave her. Jeanne clasped her hands in supplication, and asked, looking her straight in the eyes, as though to read her soul:

"How shall I arrange my hair? How shall I dress?"

Noemi answered thoughtlessly:

"Why, just as you please."

Jeanne stamped her foot angrily. Noemi understood.

"As a peasant girl," said she.

"You silly creature!"

Noemi laughed.

Jeanne sighed out the usual reproach:

"You do not love me! You do not love me!"

Then Noemi became serious, and asked her if she really wished to entice him back again—her precious Maironi?

"I want to be beautiful!" Jeanne exclaimed. "There!"

She really was beautiful at that moment, in her dressing-gown of a warm yellow tint, with her streaming dark hair down to a hand's-breadth below her waist. She looked far lovelier and younger than the night before. Her eyes shone with that look of intense animation which, in former days, they had been wont to assume when Maironi entered the room, or even when she heard his step outside.

"I wish I had the toilette I wore at Praglia," she said. "I should like to appear before him in my green fur-lined cloak, now, in May! I should like him to see at a glance how unchanged I am, and how much I wish to remain unchanged! Oh! my God, my God!"

With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Noemi's neck, and pressed her face against her shoulder, stifling a sob and murmuring words Noemi could not distinguish.

"No, no, no!" she cried at last. "I am mad! I am wicked! Let us go away, let us go away!" She raised her tearful face. "Let us go to Rome!" said she.

"Yes, yes!" Noemi answered in great agitation, "we will go to Rome. We will leave at once. Let me go and ask when the next train starts."

Jeanne immediately seized upon her and held her back. No, no, it was madness. What would her sister say? What would her brother-in-law think? It was madness, an impossibility! And besides, besides, besides—She hid her face, whispering behind her hands that she would be satisfied if she could only see him for one moment; but she could not—no, no—she could not leave without having seen him.

"Enough!" said she, uncovering her face, after a long pause. "Let us dress! I will wear whatever you please; sackcloth, if you wish it, or even haircloth!"

Her face had resumed the aggrieved smile she had worn before.

"Who can tell?" she said. "Perhaps it will do me good to see him in the dress of a peasant!"

"It would cure me at once!" Noemi muttered; then she blushed, for she felt she had spoken a great untruth.

When Signora Selva knocked at the door to say the carriage was waiting, Jeanne, with mock humility, begged Noemi to allow her to wear a certain large Rembrandt hat of which she was very fond. The black, feather-laden brim, drooping over her pale face, above the sombre light in her eyes, above the tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak, seemed to partake of her feelings, gloomy, passionate, and haughty. When she said good morning to Maria Selva she felt the admiration she aroused. She saw it in Giovanni's eyes also, but it was admiration of a different sort, and not of a sympathetic nature. As soon as she and Noemi had left him and were on their way down to the gate, where the carriage was waiting, Jeanne asked her if she really had not told her brother-in-law anything at all? Upon being reassured she murmured:

"I thought you must have."

When they had proceeded a few paces she pressed her friend's arm very hard and exclaimed, much pleased, and as though she had made an unexpected discovery:

"At any rate, I am still beautiful!"

Noemi did not heed her. She was wondering if the name Dessalle had conveyed anything to the monk. Had Maironi ever mentioned it to him? If he had told him of this love, had he not perhaps concealed the woman's name? At the bottom of her heart there lurked a lively curiosity to see this man who had awakened such a strong passion in Jeanne and had disappeared from the world in such a strange manner. But she would have liked to see him alone. It was terrifying to think of these two meeting without any preparation. If she could only speak to the monk first, to this Don Clemente, to make sure he knew, and to enlighten him if he did not know; if she could only find out from him something of that other man, the state of his mind, his intentions. "But enough!" she said to herself as she entered the carriage. "Providence must provide! And may Providence help this poor creature!" When they left the carriage where the mule-path begins, Jeanne proposed timidly, and as one who expects a refusal and knows it is justified, that she should go up to the convents by herself, a small boy, who had run after the carriage all the way from Subiaco, acting as guide. The refusal came indeed, and was most emphatic. Such a thing was out of the question! What was she thinking of? Then Jeanne begged at least to be left alone with him should she find him. Noemi did not know what to answer.

"What if I went up before you?" said she. "If I asked for Padre Clemente, and tried to find out from him what he is, what he is doing, and what he thinks; this, your—"

Jeanne interrupted her, horrified.

"The Padre? Speak to the Padre?" she exclaimed, pressing both hands to Noemi's face as though to silence her words. "Woe to you if you speak to the Padre!"

They started slowly up the rocky mule-path, Jeanne often stopping, seized with trembling, and vibrating like a taut cord in the wind. In silence she stretched out her hands that Noemi might feel how cold they were, and smiled. In the sea of clouds rushing towards the hills the pale eye of the sun appeared; the sun, too, was curious.

* * * * *

Don Clemente said Mass at about seven o'clock, spoke with the Abbot, and then went to the Ospizio where pilgrims were sheltered. He found Benedetto asleep, his arms crossed upon his breast, his lips slightly parted, his face reflecting an inward vision of beatitude. Don Clemente stroked his hair, calling him softly. The young man started, raised his head with a dazed look, and, springing out of bed, grasped and kissed Don Clemente's hand. The monk withdrew it with an impulse of humility, quickly checked by the purity of his soul, by his consciousness of the dignity of his office.

"Well?" he said. "Did the Lord speak to you?"

"I am subject to His will," Benedetto replied, "as a leaf in the wind, a leaf which knows nought."

The monk took his head between his hands, drawing him towards him, and pressed his lips upon his hair, letting them rest there while their souls silently communed.

"You must go to the Abbot," he said. "Afterwards you can come to me."

Benedetto fixed his gaze upon him, questioning him without words: "Why this visit?" Don Clemente's eyes were veiled in silence, and the disciple humbled himself in a mute but visible impulse of obedience.

"At once?" he inquired.

"At once."

"May I first go and wash in the torrent?"

The master smiled:

"Go, wash in the torrent." Bathing in the water which sometimes, after heavy rains, sings in the Pucceia Valley to the east of the monastery, and cuts in rivulets across the road to the Sacro Speco, below Santa Crocella, was the only physical pleasure in which Benedetto allowed himself to indulge. It was still sprinkling; mist smoked slowly in the deep valley; the trembling shallow waters complained to Benedetto as they hastened across the road, but rested quiet and content in the hollow of his hands; and through his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his neck, they infused deep into his heart a sense of the sweet chastity of their soul, a sense of Divine bounty. Benedetto poured the water over his head copiously, and the spirit of the water entered into his thoughts. He felt that the Father was sending him forth upon new paths, but that He would carry him in His mighty hand. He reverently blessed the creature through which so much light of grace had come to him, the most pure water! Then he bent his steps towards the Ospizio. Don Clemente, who was waiting for him in the courtyard, started when he caught sight of him, so transfigured did he appear. Under his thick, damp hair his eyes shone with quiet celestial joy, and the fleshless face, the colour of ivory, wore that expression of occult spirituality which flowed from the brushes of the Quattrocento. How could that face harmonise with peasant's attire? In his heart Don Clemente congratulated himself upon a thought which he had conceived during the night, and had already communicated to the Abbot, namely, to give Benedetto an old lay-brother's habit. Before consenting or refusing the Abbot wished to see Benedetto and speak with him.

The Abbot, while waiting for Benedetto, was strumming with his knuckles a piece of his own composition, accompanying the sound with horrible contortions of lips, nostrils and eyebrows. Upon hearing a gentle knock at the door, he neither answered nor stopped playing. Having finished the piece he began it again, and played it a second time from beginning to end. Then he stopped and listened. Another knock was heard, more gentle than the first. The Abbot exclaimed.

"Seccatore! Some bore!"

After some angry chords he began playing chromatic scales. From chromatic scales he passed to broken chords. Then he listened again for three or four minutes. Hearing nothing more he went to open the door, and perceived Benedetto, who fell upon his knees.

"Who are you?" he demanded roughly.

"My name is Piero Maironi," Benedetto answered; "but here at the monastery they call me Benedetto."

And he made a movement to take the Abbot's hand and kiss it.

"One moment," said the Abbot, frowning, withdrawing and raising his hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I work in the kitchen garden," Benedetto replied.

"Fool!" exclaimed the Abbot. "I ask what you are doing here outside my door?"

"I was coming to see you, Padre."

"Who told you to come to me?"

"Don Clemente."

The Abbot was silent, and studied the kneeling man for some time; then he grumbled something incomprehensible, and offered him his hand to kiss.

"Rise!" said he, still sharply. "Come in. Close the door."

When Benedetto had entered the Abbot appeared to forget him. He put on his glasses and began turning over the leaves of a book and glancing through the papers on his desk. In an attitude of soldierly respect, holding himself very erect, Benedetto stood, waiting for him to speak.

"Maironi of Brescia?" said the Abbot, in the same unfriendly tone as before, and without turning round.

Having received an answer he continued to turn the pages and read. Finally he removed his glasses and turned round.

"What did you come here to Santa Scolastica for?" said he.

"I was a great sinner," Benedetto answered, "God called me to withdraw from the world, and I withdrew from It."

The Abbot was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the young man, and then he said with ironical gentleness:

"No, my friend!"

He took out his snuff-box, shook it, repeating "No, no, no," rapidly and almost under his breath; he examined the snuff, dipped his fingers into it, raised his eyes once more to Benedetto's face, and, emphasising each word, said:

"That is not true!"

Grasping the pinch with his thumb, his forefinger, and his middle finger, he raised his hand swiftly, as though about to throw the snuff into the air, and, with his arm suspended, continued to speak.

"It is probably true enough that you were a great sinner, but it is not true that you withdrew from the world. You are neither in it nor out of it."

He took his pinch of snuff with a loud noise, and went on:

"Neither in it nor out of it!"

Benedetto looked at him without answering. In those eyes there was something so serious and so sweet, that the Abbot lowered his to the open snuff-box, once more dipping his fingers into it and toying with the snuff.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"You are of the world, and still you are not of it. You are in the monastery, and still you are not in the monastery. I fear your head serves you no better than your great-grandfather's, your grandfather's, and your father's served them. Fine heads, those!"

Benedetto's ivory face flushed slightly.

"They are souls with God," he said, "better than we are, and your words offend against one of God's commandments."

"Silence!" the Abbot exclaimed. "You say you have renounced the world, and you are full of worldly pride. If you really wished to renounce the world, you should have tried to become a novice! Why did you not attempt this? You wished to come here in villeggiatura, for an outing, that is the truth of the matter. Or perhaps you were under certain obligations at home, there were certain troublesome matters—you know what I mean! Nec nominentur in nobis. And you wished to rid yourself of these troubles, only to get yourself into fresh ones. You tell stories to that simple-minded Don Clemente; you usurp the place of a poor pilgrim; and perhaps—eh?—you hoped with prayers and sacraments to throw dust in the eyes of the monks, which is an easy matter enough, and even in the eyes of the Almighty Himself, which is a far more difficult matter. You do not deny this!"

The slight flush had vanished from the ivory face; the lips, which at one moment had parted, ready to utter, words of calm severity, were now motionless; the penetrating eyes were fixed upon the Abbot with the same sweaty grave look as before. And this calm silence seemed to exasperate the Abbot.

"Speak then!" said he. "Confess! Have you not also boasted of special gifts, of visions, of miracles even, for all I know? You have been a great sinner? Prove that you are one no longer! Exonerate yourself if you can. Say how you have lived; explain this pretension of yours that God has called you; justify yourself for coming here to eat the monk's bread for nothing; for you did not wish to become a monk, and as to work, you have done little enough of that."

"Padre," Benedetto replied (and the severe tone of his voice, the austere dignity of his face, accorded ill with the humble gentleness of his words), "this is good for me, a sinner, who for three years have lived the life of the spirit, in ease and delights, in peace, in the affection of saintly men, in an atmosphere full of God Himself. Your words are good, and sweet unto my soul, they are a blessing from the Lord; their sting has made me feel how much pride there is in me still, of which I was ignorant, for it was a joy to me to despise myself. But as a servant of holy Truth, I say to you that harshness is not good, even when used towards one who deceives, because gentleness might perhaps bring him to repent of his deceit; and I say also, Padre, that in your words there is not the spirit of our true and; only Father, to whom be all glory!"

At the words "to whom be all glory" Benedetto fell upon his knees, his face glowing with intense fervour.

"Is it for you, miserable sinner, to play the part of teacher?" the Abbot exclaimed.

"You are right, you are right!" Benedetto replied impulsively, with laboured breath and clasped hands. "Now I will confess my sin to you. I desired illicit love; I was happy in the passion of a woman who was not free, as I myself was not free, and I accepted this passion. I abandoned all religious practices and heeded not the scandal I gave. This woman did not believe in God, and I dishonoured God in her company, my faith being dead, and showing myself sensual, selfish, weak, and false. God called me back with the voices of my dead, the voices of my father and mother. Then I left the woman who loved me, but I was without strength of purpose, wavering in my heart between good and evil. Soon I returned to her, all aflame with sin, knowing I should lose myself, even determined to lose myself. There was no longer an atom of grace in my soul when a dying hand, dear and saintly, seized me and saved me."

"Look me in the eyes," said the Abbot, without allowing him to rise. "Have you ever let any one know you were here?"

"I have never let any one know." The Abbot answered drily:

"I do not believe you!"

Benedetto did not flinch.

"You know why I do not believe you?" the Abbot continued.

"I can imagine why," Benedetto answered, dropping his eyes. "Peccatum meum contra me est semper."

"Rise!" the Abbot commanded, still inflexible. "I expel you from the monastery. You will now go and take leave of Don Clemente, in his cell, and then you will depart, never to return. Do you understand?"

Benedetto bowed his head in assent, and was about to bend his knee to pay homage in the usual way, when the Abbot stopped him with a gesture.

"Wait," said he.

Putting on his glasses he took a sheet of paper, upon which he traced some words, standing the while,

"What will you do, when you have left?" he asked still writing.

Benedetto answered softly:

"Does the sleeping child that his father lifts in his arms know what his father will do with him?"

The Abbot made no answer; his writing finished, he placed the paper in an envelope, closed it, and without turning his head, held it out to Benedetto, who was standing behind him.

"Take this to Don Clemente," he said. Benedetto begged permission to kiss his hand.

"No, no, go away, go away!"

The Abbot's voice trembled with anger. Benedetto obeyed. Hardly had he reached the corridor when he heard the angry man thundering on the piano.

* * * * *

Before entering Don Clemente's little cell, Benedetto stopped before the great window at the end of the corridor. Here, a few hours earlier, the master himself had lingered, contemplating the lights of Subiaco, and thinking of the enemy, the creature of beauty, of genius, of natural kindliness, who was perhaps come to strive with him for possession of his spiritual son, to strive with God Himself. Now the spiritual son felt a mysterious certainty that the woman he had loved so ill, during the time of his blind and ardent leaning towards inferior things, had discovered his presence in the monastery, and would come in search of him. Seeking deep in his own heart for the Spirit which dwelt there, he gained from it a pious sense of the Divine, which was surely in her also, hidden even from herself; and he felt a mystic hope that, by some dark way, she also would one day reach the sea of eternal truth and love, which awaits so many poor wandering souls.

Don Clemente had heard him coming, and had set his door ajar. Benedetto entered, and offered him the Abbot's letter. "I must leave the monastery," he said, very calmly. "At once, and for ever."

Don Clemente did not answer, but opened the letter. When he had read it he observed, smiling, that Benedetto's departure for Jenne had been decided upon the night before. True, but the Abbot had said never to return, Don Clemente's eyes were full of tears, but he still smiled.

"You are glad?" said Benedetto, almost plaintively,

Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad! Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto did he not interpret it for himself.

"Not glad," he said, "but at peace. We understand each other, do we not? And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you will cherish."

Don Clemente's whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.

Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with gentle dignity.

"Do you desire to surrender your whole being to Supreme Truth, to His Church, visible and invisible?" said the low, manly voice.

As though he had expected both the action and the question, Benedetto answered at once, and in a firm voice:

"Yes."

The low voice:

"Do you promise, as from man to man, to remain unwed and poor, until I shall absolve you from your promise?"

The firm voice

"Yes."

The low voice:

"Do you promise to be obedient always to the authority of the Holy Church, administered according to her laws?"

The firm voice:

"Yes."

Don Clemente drew his disciple's head towards him, and said, his lips almost touching Benedetto's forehead:

"I asked the Abbot to allow me to give you the habit of a lay-brother, that on leaving here you might, at least, carry with you the sign of a humble religious office. The Abbot wished to speak with you before deciding."

Here Don Clemente kissed his disciple on the forehead, thus intimating what the Abbot's decision had been after their meeting; and into the kiss he put silent words of praise which his fatherly character and the humility of his disciple would not permit him to utter.

He did not notice that the disciple was trembling from head to foot.

"Here is what the Abbot wrote after talking with you," said he.

He showed Benedetto the sheet of paper, upon which the Abbot had written:

"I consent. Send him away at once, that I may not be tempted to detain him!"

Benedetto embraced his master impulsively, and rested his forehead against his shoulder without speaking. Don Clemente murmured: "Are you glad? Now it is I who ask you!"

He repeated his question twice without obtaining an answer. At last he heard a whisper:

"May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?"

"Yes, caro, yes!"

Beside the monk's narrow bed, and high above the kneeling-desk, a great bare cross proclaimed: "Christ is risen; now nail thy soul to me!" In fact some one, perhaps Don Clemente, perhaps one of his predecessors, had written, below it: "Omnes superbiae motus ligno crucis affigat." Benedetto prostrated himself on the floor, and placed his forehead where the knees should rest. Through the open window of the cell, the pale light of the rainy sky fell obliquely upon the backs of the prostrate man and of the man standing erect, his face raised towards the great cross. The murmur of the rain, the rumble of the deep Anio, would have meant to Jeanne the distressed lament of all that lives and loves in the world; to Don Clemente they meant the pious union of inferior creatures with the creature supplicating the common Father. Benedetto himself did not notice them.

He rose, his face composed, and, in obedience to his master's gesture, put on the robe of a lay-brother, which was spread out upon the bed, and fastened the leathern girdle. When he was dressed he opened wide his arms and displayed himself, smiling to his master, who was gratified to see how dignified, how spiritually beautiful he was in that habit.

"You did not understand?" said Benedetto. "You were not reminded of something?"

No, Don Clemente had thought that Benedetto's intense emotion had been caused by his humility. Now he understood that he should have recalled something; but what?

"Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Was it perhaps your vision?"

Yes, surely. Benedetto had seen himself dying on the bare ground, in the shade of a great tree, and wearing the habit of the Benedictines; and one argument against believing in the vision—in accordance with the advice of Don Giuseppe Flores and of Don Clemente—had been the seeming contradiction between this detail and his repugnance to the monastic vows, which had been ever increasing since his withdrawal from the world. Now this contradiction seemed to be vanishing, and therefore the credibility of the prophetic nature of the vision was reappearing. Don Clemente was aware of this part of the vision, and should have been able to read in Benedetto's heart, his awe at being once more confronted with a mysterious, divine purpose concerning him, and his fear of falling into the sin of pride. Of this, he had not thought.

"Do not you think of it, either," said he, and he hastened to change the subject. He gave Benedetto some books and a letter for the parish-priest at Jenne, whose guest he would be for the present. Whether or no he should remain at Jenne, and in case he did not, whether he should return to Subiaco or go elsewhere, that Divine Providence must point out to him.

"Padre mio," Benedetto said, "truly I do not think of what may happen to me to-morrow. I think only of the words: 'Magister adest et vocat me!' but not as being spoken by a supernatural voice. I was wrong not to understand that the Master is always present, and always calling me, you, every one! If only our soul be hushed, we may hear His voice!"

A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected at once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying, first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco. The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side, they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o'clock Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva's messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness, swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to his lips the words rose spontaneously:

"I am coming!"



III. Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o'clock. A few paces from the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from Subiaco having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it—an old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi's arm, she, with difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood, waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her companion's shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup he had brought for the beggar in Noemi's hands, and hastened away in search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of soup, partly to the rest—the water, the sight of the ancient cloister sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will—a few minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to call the Padre foresterario, to act as guide to the visitors.

"Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva's house," said Noemi.

Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio had fulfilled his mission faithfully.

"Good morning, Padre," she said in her pretty voice, to which the foreign accent lent additional charm. "We met last night. You were just leaving Signor Selva's house."

Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne's passion. Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne's thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn her dilemma to the best account.

"You were not expected last night," said Don Clemente to Noemi. "You come from the Veneto, I believe?"

"The Veneto?" Noemi seemed surprised.

"The Selvas told me you lived in the Veneto," the Padre added.

Then Noemi understood. She smiled, and murmured a monosyllable which was neither "yes" nor "no"; she also was determined to take advantage of her position, and, thanks to this misunderstanding, obtain a private interview with Don Clemente, and warn him if necessary. It was moreover most amusing to talk to this handsome monk, who believed her to be Jeanne. By a look she cautioned Jeanne, who, much embarrassed, was glancing from her to the monk, doubtful whether to speak or remain silent.

"Of course my friend knows Santa Scolastica already," she said, "but I have never been here before."

She turned to Jeanne.

"If the Padre will be kind enough to accompany me, it seems to me you might remain here, as you are not feeling well," she said.

Jeanne consented so readily that Noemi suspected she had some secret plan, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in proposing this. However, it was too late now. Don Clemente, not over-pleased at having to accompany one lady alone, suggested they should wait; perhaps her friend would feel stronger presently. Jeanne protested. No, they must not wait; she was glad to remain there.

While passing from the first to the second cloister, Noemi once more reminded the Padre of their meeting on the previous night.

"You had a companion?" she said, and immediately felt ashamed of her deceit, and of not having cleared up the mistake under which the monk was labouring. Don Clemente answered almost under his breath:

"Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery."

Both their faces were crimson, but they did not look at one another, and each was conscious only of his and her own blush.

"Do you know who we are?" Noemi continued.

Don Clemente replied that he believed he knew. They must be the two ladies Signora Selva expected. He thought she had mentioned her sister and Signora Dessalle.

"Oh! you heard of us from my sister?"

At Noemi's words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Then you are not Signora Dessalle?"

Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions, and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again, and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of which she was now relieved.

Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls, tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to God, often came to the monastery.

"I am a Protestant," she said. "This interests me greatly."

In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of her friendship for Signora Dessalle.

"Not often," he answered; "sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church," he added, smiling and blushing, "I mean the church of our monastery."

And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.

"He has a most beautiful soul," he said.

But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if—urged by a spirit of penitence—any one ever came from the world to serve in the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.

When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation. Dio! how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish she felt, how feverish!

Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.—Was there not a kitchen-garden near the monastery?—Yes, very near, on the west side; there was only a narrow lane intervening.—And who cultivated it?—A kitchen-gardener.—Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?—Old. From Subiaco.—And no one else?—Yes, Benedetto.—Benedetto? Who was Benedetto?—A young man from the Padre foresterario's native town.—And what was the Padre foresterario's native town?—Brescia.—And this young man was called Benedetto?—Every one called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real name.—But what sort of man was he?—Ah! that Fra Antonio could say. He was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably, out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the library with the Padre foresterario. And such a heart! Such a great heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received from the monastery to the poor.—And where could one find him at this hour?—Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.

Jeanne's heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto. "Ah! signora," he says, "Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you should see Praglia!" For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a venerable mother. "Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The hanging cloister, the refectory!" At these unexpected words Jeanne grows excited. They seem to say to her: "Go, go, go at once!" She starts from her chair.

"And this garden? In which direction is it?"

Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out; absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment, pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.

The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located, pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer. The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see. Knocking several times, he called: "Benede! Benede!"

A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again, glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to the herder:

"Benedetto is not here."

Her gladness had already vanished; she felt icy cold; the two men looked at her curiously, in silence.

"Is this the lady who is looking for Benedetto?" said the old man.

Jeanne did not reply; the herder answered for her, and then he told how Benedetto had spent the night out of doors; that he had found him at daybreak, in the grove of the Sacro Speco, wet to the skin. He had offered him some milk and Benedetto had drunk like a dying man to whom life is returning.

"Listen, Giovacchino," the herder added, growing suddenly grave. "When he had drunk he embraced me like this. I was feeling ill; I had not slept, my head ached, all my bones ached. Well, as he held me in his arms slight shivers seemed to come from them and creep over me, and then I felt a sort of comforting heat; and I was content, and as comfortable all over as if I had had two mouthfuls of the very best spirits in my stomach! The headache was gone, the pains in the bones were gone, everything was gone. Then I said to myself: 'By St. Catherine, this man is a saint!' And a saint he certainly is!"

While he was speaking a poor cripple passed, a beggar from Subiaco. Seeing a lady, he stopped and held out his hat. Jeanne, completely absorbed in what the herder was saying, did not notice him, nor did she hear him when—the herder having ceased speaking—he begged for alms, for the love of God. She asked the gardener where this Benedetto was to be found. The man scratched his head, doubtful how to answer. Then the beggar groaned out in a mournful voice:

"You are seeking Benedetto? He is at the Sacro Speco."

Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.

"At the Sacro Speco?" said she; and the gardener asked the beggar if he himself had seen him there.

The cripple, more tearful than ever, told how more than an hour ago he had been on the road to the Sacro Speco, beyond the grove of evergreen oaks, only a few steps from the convent. He was carrying a bundle of fagots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.

"God and St. Benedict sent a monk that way," he continued. "This monk lifted me up, comforted me, gave me his arm, and took me to the convent, where the other monks restored me. Then I came away, but the monk stayed at the Sacro Speco."

"And what has all this to do with it?" the gardener exclaimed.

"Simply this, that dressed as he was I did not at once know him; but afterwards I did. It was he."

"Whom do you mean by he?"

"Benedetto."

"Who was Benedetto?"

"The monk."

"You are mad! You idiot!" the two men exclaimed together.

Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.

"Think well," she said. "Tell the truth!"

The cripple overflowed with benedictions, mingling with them such humble expressions as: "Just as you please, just as you please! I may have been mistaken, I may have been mistaken," and with his string of pious mumblings he took himself off. Jeanne again questioned the herder and the gardener. Was it possible that Benedetto had taken the habit?—Impossible! The beggar was only a poor fool.

Presently the herder left, and Jeanne, entering the kitchen-garden, sat down tinder an olive tree, reflecting that Noemi could easily learn from the door-keeper where to find her. The old gardener, whose curiosity was aroused, asked, with many apologies, if she was a relative of Benedetto's,

"For it is known that he is a gentleman, a rich man!" said he.

Jeanne did not answer his question. She wished rather to find out why this belief in Piero's riches prevailed.—Well, you could see by his manners and by his face; he really had the face of a gentleman.—And he had not become a monk?—Well, no.—And why had he not become a monk?—That was not known for a certainty, There were many tales told. It was even said he had a wife, and that his wife had played him what the gardener called "a mean trick." Jeanne was silent, and it suddenly struck the gardener that she might be the wife, the woman who had played the "mean trick." She had perhaps repented, and was come to ask his forgiveness.

"If this story about the wife is true," he added, "I don't say she may not have had her reasons; but as far as goodness goes, she surely did not find a better man. You see, signora, these fathers are holy men, that is undeniable; but there is no one so holy as he, either at Santa Scolastica or at the Sacro Speco. That I will swear to! Not even Don Clemente, who is most holy! Still he is not equal to Benedetto. No, no!"

The beggar's words suddenly sounded in Jeanne's heart. Benedetto a monk! But why? It was discouraging to have them thus return, without a reason, to her heart. Had not the two men said it was nonsense; that the cripple was a fool? Yes, nonsense, she could see that herself; yes, a fool, he had impressed her as such; but still the stupid words beat and throbbed in her heart, as gruesome as masqueraders in comic masks would be should they knock at your door at any other time save during Carnival!

"If you will wait, signora, in less than half an hour he is sure to be here. Che! What am I saying? In a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is in the library studying with Don Clemente, or perhaps he is in the church."

The library, which runs across the narrow lane, communicates directly with the kitchen-garden.

"There he is now!" the old man exclaimed.

Jeanne started to her feet. The door leading from the library to the garden opened slowly. Instead of Piero, Noemi appeared, followed by the big monk. Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible that—? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her. Don Leone took leave of Noemi upon learning that this was the friend who—as she had told him during the visit to the monastery—had remained at the door-keeper's lodge. Of course the ladies would go up to the other convent, and his great size was no longer adapted to the climb to the Sacro Speco.

It was nearly eleven o'clock; they had ordered the carriage to meet them where they had left it at half-past twelve, for dinner was at one at the Selvas'; if Jeanne wished to see the Sacro Speco there was no time to lose, provided her indisposition had disappeared, as would seem to be the case. Noemi encouraged her going, and did not stop to ask, in the presence of the gardener, why she had left Fra Antonio to run off and explore the garden. She merely whispered: "You were making believe, eh?" Jeanne said that Noemi must certainly start for the Sacro Speco at once, but that she herself intended to wait for her in the garden. Noemi suspected another plot.

"No, no!" she exclaimed, "either you come to the Sacro Speco or—if you do not feel well enough—we will go down to Subiaco at once."

Jeanne objected that it would be useless to go down now, for they would not find the carriage; but Noemi was determined not to yield. They could walk down very slowly, and be ready for the carriage as soon as it arrived. Jeanne refused again, more emphatically than before, having no other argument to set forth. Then Noemi looked searchingly into her eyes, silently trying to read her hidden purpose there. In that moment of silence Jeanne's heart was again assailed by the beggar's words. Impulsively she seized her friend's arm.

"You wish me to go to the Sacro Speco?" she said. "Very well, let us go then. You believe something and you do not know! Let Fate decide!"

But before moving a step she dropped her friend's arm, and while Noemi, completely bewildered, stood watching her she wrote in her notebook: "I am at the Sacro Speco. For the sake of Don Giuseppe Flores wait for me!" She did not sign her name, but tearing out the tiny page gave it to the gardener. "For that man, should he return." Then once more taking Noemi's arm, she exclaimed:

"Let us go!"

The sun's burning rays, smiting the steaming, rocky hillside, brought out damp odours of herbs and of stone, silvered the puffs of mist creeping along the sides of the narrow, wild valley, as far as the enormous mass resting there, in the background, like a cap on the heights of Jenne, while the mighty voice of the Anio filled the solitude. Jeanne climbed upwards in silence, without replying to Noemi's questions. Noemi was becoming more and more alarmed by her silence, by her pallor, by the nervous twitching of her arm, by the sight of her lips pressed tightly together, to keep back her sobs. Why was she thus moved? During the night and, indeed, until they had reached the entrance to Santa Scolastica, the poor creature had wavered between fear and hope, in a fever of expectancy. Now her fever was of a different nature; at least it seemed so to Noemi. She thought Jeanne must have heard something there in the garden, something of which she did not wish to speak, something painful, frightful! What could it be? The tragic lament of the invisible water, the silent trembling of the blades of grass on the rocky slope, even the burning heat, made the heart shrink. A few paces from the arch which, standing rigid there, holds in check the black crowd of evergreen oaks, Noemi was relieved to hear human voices. They belonged to Dane on horseback and to Marinier and the Abbot on foot, who were coming down together from the Sacro Speco,

Dane showed great pleasure at this meeting; he stopped his horse, presented the ladies to the Abbot, and spoke of the Sacro Speco in enthusiastic language. Jeanne, after exchanging a few words with the Abbot, asked him if any one had recently pronounced the solemn vows or perhaps taken the habit. The Abbot replied that he had been at Santa Scolastica only a few days, and was not, at that moment, in a position to answer her question; but he did not believe any one had made the solemn profession or assumed the habit of a novice at Santa Scolastica for at least a year. Jeanne was radiant with joy. Now she understood; she had been a fool to believe it possible, even for a single moment, that in twelve hours Piero the peasant had become Piero the monk. She longed to return at once to the garden at Santa Scolastica; but how could she manage it? what pretext could she invent? She pressed forward, anxious to be done with the Sacro Speco as soon as possible. Noemi proposed resting a few minutes in the shade of the evergreen oaks, which, there on the path of those souls agitated by Divine Love, themselves seem twisted by an inward ascetic fury, by a frantic effort to tear themselves from the earth, and to dart their arms into the sky. Jeanne refused impatiently. The colour had returned to her face, and the light to her eyes. She started rapidly up the narrow stair where the short walk comes to an end, and in spite of the protests of Noemi (who could not understand the cause of this change) would not stop to take breath at the head of the stairs where, suddenly, the dark, deep spectacle of the valley reveals itself. High up on the left looms the terrible crag, dear to falcons and crows, bulging out above the dreary walls, pierced by unadorned openings which are incrusted upon the bare slope, running crosswise along its face, and form the monastery of the Sacro Speco. In the depths below the convent hangs the rose garden of St. Benedict, and below the rose garden hang the kitchen-garden and the olive groves, sloping to the open bed of the roaring Anio. The mass of cloud which had rested on the heights of Jenne was rising and invading the sky. A wave of shadow passed over the enormous crag, over the monastery, over the parapet upon which Noemi had rested her elbows, lost in contemplation.

"This is magnificent!" she said. "Let us stop here a few seconds at least, now that it is shady,"

But at that moment the little door of the monastery, not two steps from them, opened and a party of visitors, men and women, came out. The monk who had acted as guide, seeing Noemi and Jeanne, held the door open, expecting them to enter. Jeanne hastened to do so, and Noemi, much against her will, followed her,

"Thirteenth century frescoes," said the Benedictine, in the dark entrance-hall, in an indifferent tone, as he passed on. Noemi stopped, curiously regarding the ancient paintings. Jeanne followed the Benedictine, looking neither to right nor left, distracted, tormented by a doubt. What if the Abbot had been mistaken, if the beggar had told the truth? She recalled in fancy the happy meeting in the courtyard at Praglia, the intense pallor of his face, the "Thank you!" which had made her tremble with joy. A shiver ran through her blood, and, as though with a sudden pull at the reins of her imagination, she turned to Noemi: "Come!" she said.

She followed the monk, hearing nothing that he said, observing nothing that he pointed out. Noemi found it difficult to hide her own uneasiness, for she had a presentiment of evil on their return. The dangerous point was the garden at Santa Scolastica, which, judging by what she had said to the old gardener, Jeanne intended to revisit. She no longer wished to see this famous Maironi; she longed only to get Jeanne safely back to the Selvas', without any meetings, and she intended to tarry as long as possible at the Sacro Speco, that they might not have time to stop at Santa Scolastica. She therefore pretended to take a lively interest in the precious interior of this monastery, which has such a bare and dreary exterior, while all the while her one wish was to revisit it more peacefully with her sister or her brother-in-law.

Upon descending into that mine of holiness, neither of them understood what road they were following, surrounded as they were by the lifeless, cold atmosphere, the mystic shadows, the yellowish lights falling from above, the odours of damp stone, of smoking wicks, of musty draperies; bewildered by visions of chapels, of grottos, of crosses at the foot of dark stairs; losing themselves in their flight down towards the lower caverns, keeping on a level with their own pointed vaults; of marbles the colour of blood, the colour of the night, the colour of snow; of stiff, pious groups with Byzantine features, crowding the walls, the drums of the arches; of little monks and little friars, standing in the window niches, on the pinnacles of the vaults, along the line of the entablatures, each with his venerable aureole. The visitors did not know what path they were following, and Jeanne hardly felt the reality of it all.

While descending the Scala Santa—the Holy Staircase—the monk leading and Jeanne following closely, while Noemi came last, some five or six steps behind, Jeanne, suddenly throwing out her hands, clutched the guide's shoulder, and then, ashamed of her involuntary action, immediately withdrew them, while the monk, who was greatly astonished, stopped, and turned his head towards her.

"Pardon me!" she said. "Who is that father?"

Between two landings of the Scala, behind a projection of the left wall, a figure, all black in the habit of the Benedictines, stood, erect and still, in the dark corner, its forehead resting against the marble, Jeanne had passed it by four or five steps without having perceived it, then she had chanced to look round, and had seen it, while an instinctive suspicion flashed through her trembling heart.

The monk answered:

"He is not a father, signora."

He bent down to unlock the low gate of a chapel.

"What is the matter?" Noemi inquired, drawing near. "He is not a father?" Jeanne repeated.

Noemi trembled at the strange ring in her friend's voice. She herself had not noticed the figure standing erect in the shadow of the wall.

"Who?" she asked.

The monk, who, in the meantime, had opened the gate, misunderstood her, and thought she referred to something that had been said before.

"No," he answered. "The authentic portrait of St. Francis is not here. Lower down there is a St. Francis painted by the Cavalier Manente. You will see it presently. Please come in."

"What is it?" Noemi said softly to Jeanne. Her friend having answered in a calmer voice, "Nothing," she passed her, entering the chapel, and listened to the monk's explanations. Then the black figure moved away from the wall. Jeanne saw it slowly mounting in the dim light, under the pointed arches. On the upper landing the figure turned to the right, and disappeared, to reappear almost immediately on an arm of the stair, crossing the slanting background of the scene, and brilliant in the light of an invisible window. The figure mounted slowly, almost wearily. Before it vanished behind the enormous flank of an arch, it bent its head and looked down. Jeanne recognised the face!

On the instant, as if in obedience to a lightning will impelling her, as if borne along by the rush of her destiny, pale, resolute, without knowing what she would say, what she would do, she started upwards. Having crossed the upper landing, she was about to place her foot on the lighter stairway, when she stumbled and fell, remaining for a moment prostrate. Thus Noemi, on leaving the chapel, did not see her, and concluded she had gone down in search of the portrait of St. Francis, Jeanne rose and started forward; she was a poor creature torn by passions, to whom the images of celestial peace, grown rigid on the sacred walls, called in vain. All before her was silence and void. She was following paths unknown to her, swiftly, securely, as one in an hypnotic trance. She passed through dark and narrow places, through light and broad places, never hesitating, never looking to right or left, all her senses sharpened and concentrated in her hearing, following little sounds of distant whisperings, the faint complaining of one door, the breath of wind from another, the brushing of a robe against the frame. Thus, through the wide-open wings of the last door she passed rapidly, and found herself face to face with him.

He also had recognised her, at the last moment, on the Scala Santa. He felt almost certain he himself had not been recognised, nevertheless he had sought to avoid the path usually followed by visitors. Upon hearing a swift rustle of woman's drapery approaching that mysterious hall, he understood all, and, facing the entrance, he waited. She perceived him and stopped suddenly, in the very act of entering, standing as though turned to stone, between the wings of the door; her eyes fixed on his eyes, which no longer wore the look of Piero Maironi.

He was transfigured. His form, owing perhaps to the black habit, appeared slighter. His pale, fleshless face, his brow, which seemed to have become higher, expressed a dignity, a gravity, a sad sweetness which Jeanne had never known in him. And the eyes were totally different eyes; in them shone a something ineffable and divine, much humility, much power, the power of a transcendent love, springing not from his heart, but from a mystic fount within his heart; a love reaching beyond her heart, but seeking her in the inner, mysterious regions of the soul, regions unknown to her. Slowly, slowly she clasped her hands and sank upon her knees.

Benedetto carried the forefinger of his left hand to his lips, while with his other hand he pointed to the wall facing the balcony, which opens to the hornbeams of the Francolano hill and to the roar of the river far below. In the centre of the wall, showing black and large, was the word

SILENTIUM.

For centuries, ever since the word had been written there, no human voice had been heard in this place. Jeanne did not look, did not see. That finger at Piero's lips was enough to seal her own. But it was not enough to check the sob in her throat. She gazed at him intently, her lips pressed tightly together, while great, silent tears rolled down her face. Immovable, his arms hanging close to his sides, Benedetto slightly bent his head and closed his eyes, absorbed in prayer. The great, black, imperious word, big with shadows and with death, triumphed over these two human souls, while from the shining balcony the fierce souls of the Anio and of the wind roared in protest.

Suddenly, a few seconds after Benedetto's eyes had closed to her gaze, she was shaken and rent from shoulder to knee by a great sob, a sob bitter with all the bitterness of her fate. He opened his eyes and looked tenderly at her, while she drank in his look thirstily, sobbing twice, as in sorrowful gratitude. And because this man, her beloved, again raised his finger to his lips she bowed her head in assent. Yes, yes, she would be silent, she would be calm! Still in obedience to his gesture, to his look, she rose to her feet and drew back, allowing him to pass out through the open door; then she followed him humbly, her hope dead in her breast, so many sweet phantoms dead in her heart, her love turned to fear and veneration.

She followed him to the chapel which they call the upper church. There, opposite the three small pointed arches inclosing deep shadows through which an altar looms, and where a silver cross shines against the dark phantoms of ancient paintings, Jeanne, upon a sign from him, knelt on the prie-dieu placed on the right side of the great arch, which follows the line of the pointed vault, while he knelt on the one placed on the left. On the drum of the arch a fourteenth century painter had depicted the Great Sorrow. Through a high window on the left, the light fell upon the Mother of Sorrows—the Dolorosa; Benedetto was in the shadow.

His voice murmured in a scarcely audible tone:

"Still without faith?"

Softly, as he himself had spoken, and without turning her head, she answered:

"Yes."

He was silent for a time, then he continued, in the same tone:

"Do you long for it? Could you regulate your actions as if you believed in God?"

"Yes, if I be not forced to lie."

"Will you promise to live for the poor and the afflicted, as if each one of these were a part of the soul that you love?"

Jeanne did not answer. She was too far-seeing, too honest to declare that she could.

"Will you promise this," Benedetto continued, "if I promise to call you to my side at a certain hour in the future?"

She did not know of what solemn and not far distant hour he was thinking, as he spoke thus. She answered, quivering:

"Yes, yes!" "In that hour I will call you," said the voice out of the shadow, "But until I call you, you must never seek to see me again."

Jeanne pressed her hands to her eyes, and answered "No" in a smothered tone. It seemed to her she was whirling in the vortex of such agonising dreams as accompany a raging fever, Piero had ceased speaking. Two or three minutes slipped by. She withdrew her hands from her tearful eyes, and fixed her gaze upon the cross, which shone there in front of her, beyond the pointed arches, against the dark phantoms of ancient paintings. She murmured:

"Do you know that Don Giuseppe Flores is dead?"

Silence.

Jeanne turned her head. The church was empty.



CHAPTER V. THE SAINT

I. The moon had already set, and in the wind of late evening the Anio discoursed, now noisily, now softly, as one who in animated conversation, from time to time, reminds his interlocutor of something which others must not hear. Perhaps the only person who, in all the lovely shell in which Subiaco lies, was listening to this discourse, was Giovanni Selva. Seated on the terrace, near the parapet, on which he rested his elbows, he was gazing silently into the sounding darkness. Maria and Noemi, who had also come out to enjoy the freshness and the wild odours of the night wind, stood at a little distance. Maria whispered a word in her sister's ear, and Noemi withdrew. When she was alone, Maria approached her husband very softly, and dropped a kiss upon his hair.

"Giovanni," said she. How often, oppressed by the intensity of her love, had she not given him her soul, her whole being, in that one word, spoken under her breath, all others seeming to her inadequate, or worn by too many lips! Giovanni answered sadly, wearily:

"Maria."

No longer feeling her face on his hair he feared he had spoken coldly to her.

"Dearest!" he said.

She was silent for a moment, then placing both hands on his head, began, caressing it slowly, saying:

"Blessed are they who suffer for Truth's sake."

He turned round, smiling, with a thrill of affection. Having assured himself by a glance that Noemi was no longer present, he raised his arm and drew the dear face down to his lips.

"I need you so much," he said. "I need your strength!"

"That is why I am yours," Maria answered. "I am strong only because you love me."

He took her hand and kissed it reverently.

"Do you understand?" he presently exclaimed, raising his head. "Perhaps you do not know how deep my suffering really is, for it is a dark point even to me, who am old, and yet do not know myself. I was thinking of this just now. I reflected that when we suffer from a wound the cause of our suffering is visible, but when we suffer from a fever the cause is hidden, as in this case, and we never succeed in becoming thoroughly acquainted with it."