A month had not yet elapsed since the meeting at which a league among progressive Catholics had been talked of. No league had sprung from it, but to nothing else could the origin of a series of strange and unpleasant events be attributed. Professor Dane had been recalled to Ireland by his Archbishop. He had immediately called upon an English Cardinal attached to the Papal Court, in order to acquaint him with the unsatisfactory condition of his health, and to solicit his support of a petition to the Archbishop for an extension of his leave. His Eminence had opened Dane's eyes. The blow had come from Rome, where he was looked upon with the greatest disapproval. Only out of consideration for the Cardinal himself, who was known to be his friend, and above all out of consideration for the English Government, had the authorities refrained from satisfying those who wished to see his writings placed on the Index, and Dane himself constrained to resign his professorship. The Cardinal advised him to leave Rome, where the heat was beginning to be unpleasant, and to become a little more seriously ill at Montecatini or Salsomaggiore, where he would be left in peace. Don Clemente had not again appeared. Giovanni had sought him out at Santa Scolastica, where the monk had signified to him, with tears in his eyes, that their friendship must be buried like a treasure in times of war. Upon Don Paolo Fare, who had been giving a course of religious instruction for adults at Pavia, silence had been enjoined. Young di Leyni had been reached through his family. His excellent and pious mother had besought him with tears and in the name of his dead father, to break with those dangerous acquaintances, the Selvas; and he believed that this step had been suggested by her confessor. He had resisted, but at the cost of his domestic peace. Finally, a clerical periodical had published three articles on Giovanni's complete works, summing up some partial and grudging praise, and some equally partial and biting censure in a very severe judgment on the character of the works themselves, which the critic pronounced rationalistic, and on the intolerable audacity of the author, who, equipped solely with worldly learning, had dared to publish writings in which the lack of theological knowledge was painfully evident. In substance these three articles were a terrible and prohibitive condemnation of the very book Giovanni was then engaged upon, dealing with the rational foundations of Christian morality, and, in the opinion of the initiated, it predicted the Index for his other works.

"Are you in doubt concerning your own views?" Maria asked.

The question was insincere. Notwithstanding her great love for him, she had a deep and clear knowledge of her husband's soul. She believed he was, in his heart, suffering from the presentiment of an ecclesiastical condemnation. Giovanni might speak lightly of certain sentences passed by the Congregation of the Index, but his conscience, more respectful towards the authorities than he himself realised, was troubled, so Maria thought, more deeply than he wished it to be by the threatened blow. And Maria, fearing to wound him by the question, "Are you afraid?" had insinuated this other doubt, in order to prepare the way for a spontaneous confession of the truth. Giovanni's answer astonished her.

"Yes," said he. "I doubt myself. Not, however, in the way you suppose. I fear I am a purely intellectual being, and that I exaggerate the importance my views may have in the sight of God. I fear I do not live up to my views. I fear my indignation is too great against those who do not share them, against my persecutors, against that Swiss Abbe who came here with Dane, and probably talked of what was then said in our midst as he should not have done, and in places where he should have kept silent. I fear my life is one of too great inactivity, of too great ease, of too much pleasure, for to me study is a delight. I even doubt my love of God, because I feel too lightly the love of my neighbour. I am often reminded that the mystic pleasures may lull my conscience on this point. You, Maria, you live your faith; you visit the sick, work for the poor, you comfort, you instruct. I do nothing."

"I am one with you," Maria whispered. "You made me what I am. Besides, you distribute the alms of the intellect."

"No, no! Those words applied to me are presumptuous!" Maria knew that the loving sense of human fraternity was not strong in Glovanni. She felt—and she was loath to confess it even to herself—that this deficiency incapacitated her husband for the successful fulfilment of that great religious apostolate which should have resulted from his intellectual powers, and that deep and enlightened faith, which in him was more the fruit of genius, of study, of love of the divine, than of tradition or habit. She reproached herself for having sometimes rejoiced at Giovanni's coldness towards his fellows, for it lent a precious flavour to the treasures of affection he lavished upon herself. Nevertheless he was conscious of the fraternal obligations, and she had never known him turn a deaf ear to an appeal, or seen him insensible to the grief of others. He did not feel, and therefore did not love God in man, which is the most sublime flame of charity; he felt and loved man in God, which is a cold love, as would be the love of one who was kind to his brother solely to please their father. But this last is the temper common to even the best of human hearts. Giovanni's heart was tempered thus; he could not give out that sublime charity of which he humbly and sadly acknowledged himself to be void. Maria, caressing his hair with infinite tenderness, dreamed that sweet, divine, indulgence flowed out upon that head through her heart and her hands.

"Listen," said she. "I am going to propose to you at once an act of charity in which there is much merit. Noemi has received a letter from her friend Jeanne Dessalle, and says she is in need of your help."

"Call her," said he.

Noemi came. A slight cloud had gathered that day between Giovanni and herself. As rarely happened, they had conversed on religion. Noemi clung blindly to her own religion, and disliked discussions. Notwithstanding her tenderness for Maria, and her affectionate respect for Giovanni, she feared she should lean more towards the scepticism of Jeanne than towards the liberal and progressive Catholicism of the Selvas, if she stopped to examine the reasons and nature of her own belief. This Catholicism appeared to her a hybrid thing, and she had perhaps learned from Jeanne to consider it such; for Jeanne, in moments of nervous irritability, defended her own scepticism with acrimony against that faith which, because it shone with spirituality and truth, might prove formidable to her. Noemi was always suspicious, not of her sister, but of Giovanni, fearing he would attempt to convert her, and her suspicion had that day been apparent when, discussing the confessional, she had several times answered him very sharply. Then Giovanni had reminded her, gently and gravely, that error harboured unconsciously, in the sincere and pure desire of truth, is innocent in the eyes of God, but that if a sentiment foreign to that desire have any part in the repulsion of truth, then sin alone is the outcome. This argument wounded Noemi more deeply still. She had been on the point of asking her brother-in-law by what right he was acting as vice-divine judge. She controlled herself, however, and let the discussion drop.

Upon thinking it over afterwards, she regretted her sullen silence, not so much because Giovanni's words had affected her views, as because she was aware of the sorrow the religious opinions he professed brought him, and because she saw how depressed his spirits were. This was one reason why—when she was called to him, and entreated by her sister to show him much affection—she resolved, for once, to be unfaithful to Jeanne. Of what Jeanne had written to her under the seal of secrecy she had told Maria only as much as was absolutely necessary. Jeanne, still suffering both physically and mentally, had heard of the "Saint of Jenne," who was healing bodies and souls, and she besought Noemi to go to Jenne and see this Saint, and then to write to her about him. Now Noemi could not go to Jenne alone, she must ask Giovanni to accompany her. Her first confidence had stopped here. Now she broke all the seals of secrecy her friend had imposed, and spoke freely.

Poor Jeanne Dessalle was more unhappy than ever. During her short visit at Subiaco she had met her former lover. An exclamation from Giovanni! Then it was Don Clemente, after all? No, it was the man who came to the villa with the Padre the night of Jeanne's arrival, the under-gardener from Santa Scolastica—he who was no longer at the monastery—of whom all the valley of the Anio was talking, and who was known, even at Rome, as the "Saint of Jenne." Noemi begged them to forgive her for not having told them at the time. Woe to her if Jeanne had discovered her breach of confidence, after her many admonitions. Besides it would have done no good. Giovanni took his wife's hand almost stealthily, and raised it to his lips, Maria understood, and smiled. Then both assailed Noemi with questions.

Yes, Jeanne had recognised him the night of their arrival, and now Maria and Giovanni could understand the reason of the faintness she had experienced. Their meeting had taken place the following day at Sacro Speco. Concerning the meeting Noemi knew only this much, that Jeanne's hopes had been dashed to the ground, that he was clad as a monk, and had spoken as one who has given himself to God for ever; that she had promised him to dedicate her life to good works, and that no direct correspondence between them was any longer possible.

Jeanne now wrote from Villa Diedo, the home in the Veneto where she had gone with her brother from Rome, two days after leaving Subiaco. She wrote in a moment of most bitter despondency. Her brother, surprised at her devoting so much time to the poor, was irritated by this innovation in her mode of thought and of life. She might give money, if she pleased, and as much as she pleased, but to bring a string of beggars into the house, to visit them in their hovels, that he would not allow! It was foolish, it was a bore, it was ridiculous, it was eccentric, it was clerical. There were other difficulties, She would have liked to join the women's charitable associations of the town, but they drew back, shrinking into themselves like sensitive plants at the touch of this woman, who had been the subject of so much gossip on account of Maironi, and who, though she did sometimes go to church of a Sunday, did not fulfil her Easter duties. And finally her habits, which were those of a woman of leisure, were reforming their ranks after the first defeat, and delaying her progress on the new road, ever more successfully as the road became more difficult. She felt she must succumb if no word of counsel reached her, no help from him. She could not see him, she dared not write, for certainly he had intended to forbid that also; and she would rather die than do anything to displease him, if she could avoid it. She had read an article in the Corriere on the "Saint of Jenne," in which it was stated that the Saint was young, and had been a day-labourer in the kitchen-garden at Santa Scolastica. Therefore it must be he! She entreated Noemi to go to Jenne, and beg a word of comfort for her, for the sake of charity! Noemi was determined to go. Would Giovanni accompany her? In the humble tone in which she asked this favour, Giovanni heard a tacit petition for forgiveness and peace; he held out his hand:

"With all my heart," he said.

Maria offered to join them, and they decided to go the following morning, starting on foot, at five o' clock, in order to avoid the blazing sun on the slope of Jenne. Then they spoke of the Saint.

The whole valley was talking about him. The article Jeanne had seen said that a great number of people were flocking to Jenne to see and hear the Saint; that miraculous cures were being announced as his work; that the Benedictines told with admiration of the life of penance and of prayer he had led for three years at Santa Scolastica, working in the garden. At Subiaco still more wonderful reports were circulating. A certain forester called Torquato, a most worthy man and a relative of the Selvas' servant, told her he had been to Jenne with a stranger, a sort of poet, who had come all the way from Rome to talk with the Saint. On the way there and back, they had met perhaps fifty people—real ladies and gentlemen they were, too; and on the hillside of Jenne they had met a procession of women singing the litanies. At Jenne he had heard the whole story. One night the parish priest had dreamed that a globe of fire rested on the great cross planted on the summit of the hill; this blazing globe had set the cross itself on fire, and it was burning and glowing without being consumed, while all the mountains and the valley were illumined by it. The next day there had appeared before him a young man, in the habit of a Benedictine lay-brother, who was the bearer of a letter to him. This letter was from the Abbot of Santa Scolastica, and said: "I send you an angel whose fire burns clear, through whom Jenne will become renowned throughout the universe!" It was also written that this young man was, by birth, a mighty prince, of royal blood, but that in order to serve God, in all humility he had laboured as kitchen-gardener at Santa Scolastica for three years. The parish priest had gone half crazy from the emotion caused by the fire seen in his dream, and the fire that had come to him, and had been seized by a raging fever. The next day was a festa—a holy-day—and of the two other priests who live at Jenne, one was ill, and the other had gone to Filettino two days before to see his sick mother. In the village the priest's servant had told all about this Benedictine, all about the dream, had told, in fact, the whole story. The villagers flocked to church, to hear the Benedictine say Mass; for they had seen him enter, and would not believe he was not going to officiate. They demanded that he should preach, at least, although he assured them he had no right to preach in church; and, keeping him in their midst, they pressed him so hard, that he finally signed to them with his hand to leave the church, promising those nearest him to speak outside. And he had spoken outside! What he had really said the servant could not tell Maria, nor could Maria herself gather much from Torquatof; but by dint of much questioning, and with the aid of her own imagination, she succeeded in reconstructing his discourse somewhat as follows:

Are you fit to enter the church? Are you at peace with your neighbour? Do you know what the Lord Jesus means, when He says to you that no man may approach the altar if he be not at peace with his neighbour? Do you know that you may not enter the church if you have sinned against charity or justice, and have not made amends, or have not repented when it was impossible to make amends? Do you know that you may not enter the church, not only if you bear ill-will against your neighbour, but also if you have injured him in any manner whatsoever, either in your dealings with him, or in his honour, if you have slandered him, or harbour in your heart wicked desires against his body or his soul? Do you know that all the Masses, all the Benedictions, all the Rosaries, and all the Litanies, count for less than nothing, if you do not first purify your hearts, according to the word of Jesus? Are you unclean with hatred, or with any impurity whatsoever? Then go! Jesus will not have you in the church! "Ma che!" said Torquato, "The discourse was nothing, it was the face, the voice, the eyes!"

The worthy man spoke as if he himself had been present, telling how the crowd had thrown themselves upon their knees and wept, and how certain women, who were enemies, had embraced each other. In fact there had been only women and old men present, for the men of Jenne are all shepherds at Nettuno and Anzio, and do not return to the hills before the end of June. The Saint seeing them so penitent, had said: "Enter and kneel. God is within you. Worship Him in silence." Then the crowd had entered, a perfect multitude! They had fallen upon their knees, all of them, and for a quarter of an hour—according to Torquato—you could have heard a fly winging in the great church. The Saint had then intoned the "Our Father" in a loud voice, and, the crowd lifting their voices and joining in, he had gone through it, stopping at each verse. Torquato told how the parish priest, having heard all this, kissed his guest, and as he kissed him he was cured of his fever! Then the people came to the canonica—the priest's house—bringing the sick, that the Saint might bless and heal them. He would not do this, but all those who succeeded in touching his habit, even by stealth were healed. And many had come to him for advice. Then there had been a great miracle concerning a mule, which turned ugly on the steep path down the slope, and which was about to throw its rider upon the rocks. The Saint, who was present, being on his way up from the Infernillo with water, had stretched out his hand, and the mule had become quiet on the instant!

Maria told the story as she had heard it from the forester.

"I wonder if it is all as true as the part about the prince of royal blood!" said Noemi.

"To-morrow we shall know," Giovanni answered, rising.

II. They started at about six o'clock; the sky was cloudy; and a cool breeze was blowing, fragrant with the odours of the woods and the hills, alive with the tiny, gay voices of birds, purifying to the soul itself. At the Baths of Nero they took the mule-path which leads into the narrow, green ravine, winding upwards on the right of the Anio. High up on the left they saw Santa Scolastica, the Sacro Speco, and the House of the Blessed Lawrence, all white below the rocks, which are the colour of iron. They left the bridge of the Scalilla on the right—only a log, thrown across to the wild left bank of the turbulent little torrent. On the way they talked much of the strange Saint. Giovanni wondered that Don Clemente had never in the past told him anything of the character of this under-gardener. He approved of the little sermon in the open air. He had once mentioned the subject of it to Don Clemente, pointing out to Mm that those words of Christ are neither properly observed, nor taught; even the best of Christians apply them only to the use of the sacraments. If the faithful realised that they must not enter the church, bringing an impure heart, the Christian peoples would indeed become examples to the world, and no one would then dare affirm that morality is much the same everywhere, and has nothing to do with religious beliefs.

He also highly approved of thus reciting "Our Father" in church, but he did not approve of the miracles. He suspected weakness in a man who did not know how to break resolutely with popular superstition when it was flattering to himself.

What could Noemi say about this man's character? What opinion had she formed of him from Jeanne's confidences? Noemi was embarrassed. All that Jeanne had told her about him convinced her that Maironi had behaved very badly to her friend, that he had never really loved her and at the same time awoke in Noemi an intellectual curiosity, which, though she struggled against it, was always returning—a curiosity to know if that man would have loved her better than Jeanne. She replied that Maironi's character was an enigma to her. And his intellect? His culture? She could say nothing concerning either his intellect or his culture, but if such a woman as Jeanne Dessalle had loved him so devotedly, he must certainly be both intelligent and cultured. And his former religious views? To this last question Noemi's answer was that from some facts Jeanne had mentioned, from the decisive influence which the religious traditions of his family had had upon him at a crisis in their love, she judged him to have been a Catholic of the old school, not a Catholic like—Here Noemi broke off blushing and smiling. Giovanni smiled also, but Maria looked slightly annoyed. The subject was at once dropped.

They proceeded for some time in silence, exchanging only now and then a word of greeting with some mountaineer on his way down to the mills at Subiaco, mounted on his mule, laden with grain.

They stopped to rest in the field of San Giovanni, which divides the territory of Subiaco from that of Jenne. The Blessed Lawrence, now left far behind, all white under the rocks which are the colour of iron, looked down upon them from on high. Rays of sunshine, breaking through the clouds, gilded the hills, and the little party, remembering the arid hillside of Jenne, had just started forward again, when they met the doctor from Jenne, who recognised Maria, having seen her some time before at the house of his colleague at Subiaco. He bowed, and smiling, reined in his mule.

"You are on the way to Jenne? Are you going to see the Saint? You will find many people there to-day." Many people! This was disappointing to Noemi, who feared she would not be able to speak quietly with Maironi. The Selvas were curious to know all about it. Why so many people? Because they want the Saint at Filettino, they want him at Vallepietra, they want him at Trevi, and the women of Jenne intend to keep him for themselves.

"And all to give me a rest!" the doctor added. "And to give the chemist a rest also, for now the Benedictine is the doctor, and his tunic is the chemist!"

He told them that to-day people were coming from Filettino, from Vallepietra, and from Trevi, to treat with Jenne concerning some means of dividing the Saint among all those towns, "Who knows but what they may come to blows!" At any rate the carabinieri were already stationed at Jenne.

"You call him 'the Saint' also?" said Maria.

"Oh, yes!" the doctor answered, laughing. "They all call him that, all save those who call him 'the Devil,' for at Jenne some do so already!"

How astonishing! This was news to them! Who called him "the Devil," and why?

"Ah!" and the doctor put on the knowing look of one who is well informed, but does not intend to tell all he knows. "Well," said he, "there are two priests from Rome staying at Jenne for a holiday, two priests, two priests—! They are very clever! They have not told me what they think of the Saint, but, at any rate, the parish priest's ardour has cooled considerably, and it has been the same with others. Those priests are workers. You do not see it, but they are at work all the time. They are insects—I say it without intending to speak ill of them, indeed in this case their action may even be praiseworthy! They are insects, which, when they wish to kill a plant, do not touch the fruit, the flowers, the leaves, or the roots I may even say, for there a poisonous draught might reach them, or a spade reveal their presence, and they do not wish to be reached, do not wish to be seen. They bore into the marrow. These two have already reached the marrow. Perhaps it may not be for a month, perhaps not for two months; but the plant is doomed to wither, and wither it must!"

"But what do you yourself think about it?" Maria inquired. "Does this man really pretend to be a saint? Is he pleased that these superstitious people quarrel about him in this way? Is it true he has healed the sick?"

The doctor continued to laugh while she was speaking.

"I laugh," he answered. "It is a ease of contagious, mystic psychopathy! But you must excuse me now, for I am due at Subiaco at eight o'clock. I hope you will enjoy yourselves. May your visit divert you,"

With this malicious thrust, he shook the reins on the mule's neck, and rode on, fearing he might be obliged to give proofs of what he asserted. Noemi, who was the most agitated of the party at the prospect of seeing the man Jeanne loved, began to feel weary. They halted a second time at the foot of the slope of Jenne, on the gravel across which shallow rivulets streak, flowing down to the river from the grotto of the Infernillo. Someone was approaching them from behind. What a surprise! What a pleasure! Don Clemente! The Padre's fine face lit up also. He loved and respected Giovanni for a true Christian, and sometimes had to struggle against the temptation to judge his superior, the Abbot, who had forbidden him to visit Giovanni, to struggle against the temptation to appeal to Someone greater than abbots, greater than pontiffs, in his own soul. This Someone was saying to him now: "The meeting is My gift!" and so the monk joined his friends joyfully. Maria presented him to Noemi, and he blushed again on recognising the woman he had mistaken for Benedetto's temptress.

"And your friend?" he inquired, trembling lest he be informed of her presence there. Upon being reassured a look of relief flashed across his face. Noemi smiled at this, and he, noticing her smile, was greatly embarrassed. The others smiled also, but no one spoke. Giovanni was the first to break the silence. Surely Don Clemente was, like themselves, on his way to Jenne? Perhaps he was going there for the same purpose, to see the same person, the gardener, eh? the gardener of that famous evening? Ah! Don Clemente, Don Clemente! Yes, Don Clemente was also going to Jenne, was going to see Benedetto. And as to the gardener, there had been no deception, only a desire to bring the two souls together in the most natural way, without violence, without recommendations and previous explanations.

They started up the hill together, talking of Benedetto.

Noemi, forgetting her weariness, hung upon the Padre's lips, and the Padre, precisely on this account, said so little and was so circumspect that she trembled with impatience, and presently felt tired again. She took Maria's arm, and allowed Don Clemente to go on with her brother-in-law. Then Don Clemente confided to Giovanni that his mission at Jenne was of a painful nature. It seemed some one at Jenne had written to Rome, speaking in hostile language of Benedetto, accusing him of preaching what was not perfectly orthodox, of pretending to be a miracle worker, and of wearing a religious habit to which he had no right: this greatly enhancing the gravity of the scandal. Certainly they had written to the Abbot from Rome, for he had ordered Don Clemente to go to Jenne, and demand of Benedetto the restitution of the habit. Don Clemente had tried in vain to dissuade the old abbot, who had waved the matter aside with a jest. "Read the Gospel—the Passion according to St. Mark. He who follows Christ after all others have forsaken Him must part with his cloak. It is a mark of holiness." Therefore, as some one must carry this message to Jenne, Don Clemente preferred to do it himself. He had, moreover, received a strange letter from the parish priest of Jenne. This priest, a good man, but timid, had written that Benedetto was, to his mind, a most pious Christian, but that he talked too much of religion to the people, and that his discourses sometimes had a flavour of quietism and of rationalism, that there were those who accused him of employing a demoniacal power for the furtherance of his not over-orthodox views, that this accusation was certainly false, but that, nevertheless, prudence forbade the writer to keep Benedetto with him any longer. Perhaps the wisest course for him would be to retire to some town where he was not known, and to live quietly there.

Their conversation was here interrupted by a call from Maria. Noemi, overpowered by the heat of the burning sun, and seized with palpitations, must rest again. The sisters had seated themselves in the shadow of a rock.

Don Clemente took leave of them. They would meet later at Jenne. Maria was greatly distressed about her sister, and secretly reproached herself for having allowed her to come on foot. She and Giovanni stood silently watching Noemi, who, though very pale, smiled at them bravely. Upon that wilderness of mountains, devoid of beauty, upon those sun-baked rocks, the silence hung with a mortal weight! It was a relief to all three to hear the voices of some wayfarers who were coming up. There were six or seven in the party, and they had two mules with them. As they toiled upwards they sang the Rosary. When the procession had drawn nearer, a girl and a man could be seen riding the mules; both were emaciated and almost cadaverous in appearance. The girl opened her eyes wide on perceiving the Selvas, but the man kept his closed. The others looked at them with a rapt expression, continuing their prayers. The monotonous chant and the beat of the mule's hoofs grew fainter, and at last died away among the heights above. Soon after this sad procession had passed, a party of young men from the city appeared, laughing merrily, and talking of Quirites who were on the lookout rather for Sabine women than for saints. On perceiving Giovanni and his companions they became silent, but when they had passed them they again began to laugh and jest; they jested about Giovanni, who, they said, might be the Saint between two temptresses.

A great cloud with silver edges, the first of a whole fleet, sailing towards the west, hid the sun. Noemi, greatly refreshed, proposed that they should take advantage of the shade, and go forward. A few steps below the cross of which, according to Torquato, the parish priest had dreamed, they met a bourgeons dressed in black, who was coming down, riding a mule.

"I beg your pardon," he said, addressing the ladles and reining in his mule, "but is either of you Her Excellency the Duchess di Civitella?"

On receiving an answer he apologised, saying that a friend of his—a, senator—had recommended this duchess to his care; that he himself did not know her, but that she was coming to Jenne to see the Saint.

"Indeed, perhaps you, gentlemen, have come for the same purpose!" he said smiling. "Everyone comes for that now. Once upon a time they came to see a pope! Certainly! There was a pope at Jenne once—Alexander IV, You will see the inscription: 'Colores aestivos vitandi caussa.' Now they come for a saint. He ought to be more than a pope, but I fear he is less. Did you see the two sick people? did you see the students from Rome? Ah! you will see other astonishing things, other astonishing things! But, after all, I am afraid he is less than a pope! A pleasant journey to you!"

Beyond the cross, they ascended with the open sky before them, between the green ridges, which slope downward, forming the lonely hollow of Jenne, which is crowned on the opposite side with that wretched herd of poor dwellings, dominated by the campanile. Giovanni had been to Jenne before, but it did not seem to him in any way changed because a saint now lived there, and miracles were performed there. It impressed his wife, who now saw it for the first time, as a spot which might inspire religious contemplation, by that sense of altitude, not suggested by distant views, by that deep sky behind the village, by its solitude, its silence. Noemi was thinking with profound pity of poor far-away Jeanne.

III. The innkeeper at Jenne was a worthy, gravely courteous man, in spectacles, who, having been to America, could be said to know the world, but who seemed to have escaped its corrupting influences. To the new-comers he spoke of Benedetto favourably, on the whole, but with a certain diplomatic reserve. He did not call him "the Saint," he called him "Fra Benedetto." The Selvas learned from him that Benedetto occupied a cabin belonging to the innkeeper himself, in payment of which he tilled a small piece of ground. Those who wished to see him must wait until eleven o'clock. Now he was mowing the grass. His life was regulated in the following manner: At dawn he went to hear the parish priest say Mass, then he worked until eleven. He ate only bread, herbs, and fruit and drank only water. In the afternoon he worked in the fields of widows and orphans. In the evening, seated before his door, he talked of religion.

At half-past eleven, the Selvas and Noemi accompanied by the innkeeper's wife—a fine, big woman, very neat, very simple, and gay in a quiet way—went to visit Sant' Andrea, the church of Jenne. Coming out into the open square from the maze of narrow lanes, where stands the inn, they found a large assemblage of women, strangers, so the hostess said. She could distinguish them by their corselets, their fustian skirts, their foot-gear. Those were from Trevi, those from Filettino, and those others from Vallepietra. The hostess went into a bakehouse on the right of the church, where several women of Jenne were having their stiacciati [1] baked, each having brought her own.

[Footnote 1: Stiacciati a sort of very large, round cake, common in all parts of Italy. It is made of cornflour, of wheatflour, or of chestnut-flour, and in some places of vegetables. It is mixed with, oil, and baked in a flat pan.—Translators Note.]

"Strangers, who wish to talk with our Saint," she said to Maria. She did not, like her husband, say "Fra Benedetto," she called him "the Saint."

"But not to his face," she declared, crimsoning, "because it vexes him." "No, he does not really get angry, because he is a saint, but he begs very earnestly not to be called thus."

In the large, dilapidated church—which, "one Sunday or another, will crush us all, like so many rats," the hostess said—there were only the two invalids and their party. The sick man and girl had been laid on the floor exactly in the centre of the church, with two pillows under their heads. Their companions, on their knees, were singing psalms, and, without looking at the new-comers, continued their devotions. "Probably they have brought them to be blessed by the Saint," said the hostess under her breath. "That is painful to him; he does not wish it. Perhaps they will try to touch his habit by stealth, but even that is difficult now."

The poor people stopped singing, and a woman came to ask the hostess if it had already struck eleven o'clock? Maria answered, telling her it was only a quarter to eleven, and then inquired about the two sick ones. The man had been ill with fever for two years, and the girl, his sister, had heart disease. They had come from the lowlands of Arcinazzo, a journey of several hours, to be healed by the Saint of Jenne. A woman from Arcinazzo, who had heart disease, had been cured some days before by simply touching his habit. Maria and Noemi spoke to the sufferers. The girl was confident, but the man, who was shaking with fever, seemed to have come simply to satisfy his people, to give this a trial also. He had suffered greatly on the journey.

"These roads lead me into the next world," he said. "I shall be healed in that way."

A woman, his mother perhaps, burst into tears, and besought him to pray, to commend himself to Jesus, to Mary. The two sisters withdrew, in obedience to a summons from Giovanni; for a quarrel had broken out in the square, between the women and the students who had passed the Selvas on the Jenne hillside. The students had probably jested broadly concerning the devotion of the women to the Saint, and this had enraged them. The women of Jenne came rushing out of the bakehouse, while the plumes of a couple of carabinieri appeared in the opposite direction. Noemi and Maria mingled with the women, trying to pacify them. Giovanni harangued the students, who swaggered and laughed, and might possibly do worse. Chanting was heard in the church, muffled at first and then loud, as the door was thrown open:

"Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis."

The two sufferers appeared. The girl, supported on either side, was walking; the man, as limp as a corpse, was being borne along, some women carrying his shoulders, others his feet; and the bearers were also chanting, with solemn faces:

"Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis."

The women in the square all fell on their knees, the astonished carabinieri standing in their midst. The students were silent, while a party of ladies and gentlemen, about to enter the square from the Val d'Aniene mule-path, stopped their mules. First Maria, then Noemi, knelt, drawn towards the earth by an impulse which made them tremble with emotion. Giovanni hesitated. This was not his faith. It seemed to him an offence to the Creator, the Giver of reason, to allow a sick man to journey a long distance on a mule, that he might be miraculously healed by an image, a relic, or a man. Still it was faith. It was—enclosed in a rough envelope of frail ignorance—that sense denied, to proud minds, of the hidden truth which is life; that mysterious radium within the mass of impure ore. It was faith, it was guiltless error, it was love, it was suffering, it was a visible something belonging to the union of the highest mysteries of the Universe. The ground itself, the great sad face of the church, and the small humble faces of the little houses surrounding the square, seem to understand, to reverence it. In his mind's eye Giovanni saw the image of a dead woman who had been dear to him, and who had believed thus; a cold wave flowed through his blood, his knees bent under him. The little band with the sufferers passed on, singing, their faces uplifted:

"Mater Christi." The kneeling women answered with bowed heads:

"Ora pro nobis."

Then they rose, and followed the procession, while three or four women of Jenne said aloud:

"He does not wish it, he does not wish it!"

One of them explained to Maria that the Saint did not wish the sick brought to him. Their words were not heeded, so they also joined the procession, anxious to see what would happen.

Maria and Giovanni also, who, at first, had been loath to do so, started on, following the eager Noemi. Behind them, at a proper distance to indicate that they were spectators and not participants, came the students. Alone, and at a much greater distance, walked the carabinieri, forming the end of this winding, snake-like line of people, which slipped into a crack between the dilapidated houses, huddled together opposite the church, and disappeared.

It disappeared, writhing through dark lanes, with pompous names, which lead to another side of the village, the most miserable, the most deformed part. Here, on the steep and rocky hillside, loosely fastened to projections, to slabs of rock, the hovels, piled one above the other, slide downwards among the stones. The small black windows, like empty sockets in a skull, stare into the silence of the deep and narrow valley. The doors pour out crazy flights of stairs upon the slope, most of them reduced to three or four splintered steps, while some of the doors are entirely widowed of their steps. When one has, with difficulty, succeeded in climbing in at one of these doors, one finds a cave without light or air.

"So mali passi, vigoli cattivi! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]" said a smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.

One of these caves, so difficult of access, was Benedetto's abode. Two streams of people—the crowd had split coming down the hill—met below the open door. Some women came out of a neighbouring bakehouse to say that Benedetto was not there. The crowd surged round the invalids, and groans were heard. Anxious questions were asked, rumours were carried up through the two streams of people, to the very end of the procession, where the cause of those groans was not understood, and all, eager to see, were struggling downwards. Perhaps the sufferers had become worse, there in the blazing sun. Three students slid down among the women, and were received with grunts and imprecations. Now a woman of the town has spoken:

"Take the poor creatures inside."

Yes, yes! Inside, inside! Into the Saint's house!

The crowd already expects a miracle from the walls between which he dwells, from the floor his foot presses, from all these objects saturated with his holiness. On the Saint's bed! On the Saint's bed! Some boards are laid upon the broken slabs of stone which lead up to Benedetto's door, and the two invalids are half pushed, half carried up, by the surging crowd. There they lie, crosswise upon the Saint's pallet. The crowd fills the cave. All fall upon their knees in prayer.

It is indeed a cave. One whole side of it is a wall of yellowish rock, hewn obliquely. The bare, uneven earth forms the floor. Near the couch, raised about two spans, is a fireplace. There are no windows, but a ray of sunshine, falling through the chimney, strikes—like a celestial flame—on the stones of the hearth where there is no trace of ashes. A brown blanket is spread over the couch. A cross is roughly carved on the face of the rock, near the entrance. In one corner appear—the only luxuries—a large pail full of water, a green basin, a bottle, and a glass. Some books are piled on a rickety cane-seated chair; and a second chair bears a plate of beans and some bread. The place indicates extreme poverty, but is clean and orderly.

The feverish man complains of the cold, of the dampness, of the dark. He says he is worse, that they have brought him here to die. They beseech him to calm himself, to hope. But his young sister, with the diseased heart, begins to feel relief almost as soon as they have placed her on the bed. She proclaims this at once, announces that she is being healed. Pressing around her they laugh and cry, and praise the Lord all at the same moment. They kiss her garments, as if she herself had become holy; the news is shouted to those outside. Joyous voices answer, more people press into the den, with glowing faces, with eager eyes. But at that moment some one who has gone farther down the hill in search of the Saint, cries from afar: "The Saint is coming! The Saint is coming!" Then the cave pours out a stream of people upon the slope; a din of voices and a rush of feet flow downwards, and in a second the Selvas and the three or four students stand alone, below the door of the cabin. Many of the women of Jenne have gone back to their work in the bakehouse, while others are looking on from the doorway. Maria exchanges a few words with the latter. Are they all strangers, those who have gone down? Eh, si! Not all, but most of them. People from Vallepietra, for the most part. It would be better if water came to us from Vallepietra. And what do they want? To take the Saint away from Jenne with them? Yes, they have said that; they talked about doing great things. And you of Jenne? We of Jenne know he does not wish to go. And besides—Her companions call out something from within; the woman turns away; a quarrel is going on. Giovanni, Maria, and the students go in to see the girl who has been miraculously healed. Noemi remains outside. She is impatient to see Benedetto; she trembles, without knowing why; in her heart she calls herself a fool; but she does not move.

Two Benedictine habits are crossing the small field in the distance below. Above the second the blade of a scythe flashes from time to time. Hearing the hubbub of voices, and steps descending from above, Benedetto turned to his companion with a smile:

"Padre mio!"

Upon reaching Jenne, Don Clemente had immediately joined Benedetto in the small field he was mowing. He had given him the painful message, and after a long discussion, had promised to say certain things which Benedetto wished said, to those who called him a saint. He also heard the hubbub of the crowd which was coming down; the cry of "The Saint! The Saint!" And when Benedetto said to him, smiling: "Padre mio!" his face paled, but he made a gesture of acquiescence, and stepped forward. Benedetto dropped his scythe and went a few steps away from the path. He sat down behind a rock and a great apple tree covered with blossoms, which hid him from those who were approaching. Don Clemente faced the crowd alone.

On perceiving him they stopped. Several voices said. "It is not he!" Other voices answered "He is behind!" While others in the rear-guard called out "Press forward!" The column moved on.

Then Don Clemente raised his hand and said:

"Listen!"

This man who could not speak to two strangers without blushing was now very pale. His soft, sweet voice hardly made itself heard, but the gesture was seen. The beautiful, peaceful face, the tall figure, inspired reverence.

"You seek Benedetto," said he. "You call him a saint. By this you cause him great grief. Since the day of his arrival at Jenne he has repeatedly stated that he was a great sinner, brought by the grace of God to repentance. Now he wishes me to confirm this to you. I do confirm it; it is the truth. He was a great sinner. To-morrow he may fall again. If he believed you, for one moment only, when you call him a saint, God would depart from him. Do not again call him thus, and above all do not ask him to perform miracles."

"Padre!" Coming forward, his arms spread wide, an old man, tall, thin, toothless, with the profile of the eagle, interrupted him in a solemn voice. "Padre, we do not ask for a miracle, the miracle is already performed. The woman was healed when she touched the man's dwelling, and we say to you that the man is saintly, and that if there are those in Jenne who speak differently, they are worthy to burn in the very bottom of hell! Padre, we kiss your hands, but we say this."

"There is another to be healed, another to be healed!" ten, twenty voices cried. "Let the Saint come!"

Among the students forming the rear-guard voices shouted: "Bring the Saint forward! Let the Saint speak!"

"What actions are these?" the old man exclaimed, turning round with the indignation of the popular orator who finds himself deposed. "What actions are these?"

A rumble of angry voices drowned his words, and the students continued to shout louder than ever:

"The Saint! Let the Saint speak! Away with the priest! Away with him!"

The women turned threateningly:

"Away with you, yourselves! Away with you!"

Up above, among the hovels perched on the hillside, the plumes of the carabinieri appeared. Then Benedetto rose, and came out into the open.

As soon as the people perceived him, they greeted him with a great, joyous clamour. The Selvas went to the door of the cave and looked down. Noemi ran swiftly down the hill. In a second Benedetto found himself surrounded by people kissing his habit, and pouring out blessings upon him. Many were weeping, on their knees. Noemi, who had rushed down alone behind the students, pressed forward, and saw the man, at last!

Jeanne had shown her several photographs of him, telling her at the same time that no one of them was entirely satisfactory. In Piero Maironi's winning face Noemi had noticed a shade of sadness; Benedetto's face shone with extraordinary vivacity. Two days before he had had his hair and beard shaved, because he had heard a woman murmur: "He is as beautiful as Jesus Himself!" The expression of the dominating soul in him had become more marked; the nose had grown more prominent through his increased fleshlessness, there were great dark rings under his eyes. The eyes had an ineffable fascination. They still wore an expression of sadness, but of sweet sadness, full of vigour, of peace, and of mystic devotion. Standing there, under the little white cloud of the flowering apple tree, in the midst of the prostrate crowd, surrounded by sunshine and moving shadows he seemed an apparition such as visited the old masters. Noemi stood as if turned to stone, a great sob in her throat. Near her, several women were weeping for the joy of having seen him, and influenced by reciprocal hypnotism. One, who was ill and weary, had seated herself on the edge of the path, where she could not see the Saint, and was weeping from excitement, without knowing why. Some late arrivals came forward, an old man and three women from Vallepietra. The three women immediately mistook Don Clemente for Benedetto, and burst out sobbing and exclaiming: "How beautiful he is, how beautiful!"

In the meantime Benedetto, standing under the little white cloud of the flowering apple tree, had succeeded, with words of sorrow, of supplication, of reproach, in repulsing the assault of the adoring throng, and in bringing the people to their feet. A cry went up from the group of students: "Speak!" Just at that moment the bells of Jenne, far up above them, solemnly announced the hour of noon to the village, to the solitudes, to Monte Leo, to Monte Sant' Antonio, to Monte Altuino, and to the clouds, sailing westwards. Benedetto laid his finger on his lips, the bells alone spoke. He glanced at Don Clemente, and his look seemed to convey a tacit invitation. Don Clemente bared his head, and began to recite the Angelus Domini. Benedetto, erect, his hands clasped, said it with him, and, as long as the bells continued to ring, kept his gaze fixed on the young man who had shouted to him to speak; his eyes were full of sadness, of mystic sweetness. That ineffable look, the pealing of the solemn-voiced bells, the trembling of the grass, the gentle waving in the breeze of the flowery branches, the rapt expression of so many tearful faces, all turned towards this one face, were blended for Noemi into a single word, which thrilled her while it evaded her, as the soul is tormented by the longing for that occult word which underlies a tragic procession of harmonious chords. The bells ceased, and Benedetto said gently to those nearest him:

"Who are you, and what has happened that you come to me as if I were that which I am not?"

Several voices answered at once; he was informed of the miracle, and of how he was wanted in this village and in that.

"You exalt me," said he, "because you are blind. If this girl is healed, not I have healed her, but her faith has made her whole. This power of faith, which has caused her to rise up and walk, is in God's world, everywhere and always, like the power of terror, which causes us to tremble and fall down. It is a power in the soul, like the powers which are in water, and in fire. Therefore, if the girl is healed, it is because God has put this great power into His world; praise God for it, and not me. And now listen! You offend God by believing His strength and bounty to be greater in miracles. His strength and bounty are everywhere, and always infinite. It is difficult to understand how faith can heal, but it is impossible to understand how these flowers can grow. The Lord would be no less powerful, no less good, if this girl had not been healed. It is well to pray for health, but pray still more fervently to understand this great thing of which I have just told you; pray to be able to adore the Lord's will, when it gives you death, as when it gives you life. There are men in the world who think they do not believe in God, and when sickness comes to their homes they say: 'It is the law, it is nature, it is the economy of the Universe; we bow our heads, we accept without a murmur, we march on in the path of duty.' Have a care that such men do not pass before you in the kingdom of Heaven! And reflect also on the manner of miracles you demand. You come to be healed of the ills of the body, and for this you wish me to visit your villages. Have faith, and you will be healed without me. But remember that your faith may be used to better purpose, according to the will of God. Are you, all of you, perfectly healthy in your souls? No, you are not; and what can it profit you that the skin be whole, if the wine be spoiled? You love yourselves and your families better than truth, better than justice, better than divine law. You are always dwelling upon what is due to you and yours, and you seldom dwell upon what is due to others. You believe your souls will be saved by the great number of your prayers, and you do not even know how to pray. You pray in the same manner to the saints, who are the servants, and to God, who is the Master; when you do not do still worse! You do not reflect that the Master cares little for many words. He desires rather that you serve Him faithfully in silence, your minds fixed always on His will. And you do not understand the nature of your own ills; you are like the dying man who says: 'I am well!' Perhaps some one of you is thinking at this moment. 'If I do not understand that I am doing wrong, then God will not condemn me.' But the Lord does not judge as do the judges of this world. He who takes poison unwittingly must fall, as he who takes it wittingly must fall. He who is without the white robe may not come to the Lord's supper, though he be not aware the robe is necessary. He who loves himself above all things, be he ignorant of conscious of his sin, cannot pass through the gate of the kingdom of Heaven; as the bride's finger, if it be doubled up, cannot pass through the ring the bridegroom offers. Know the infirmities of your souls, and pray with faith to be freed from them. In the name of Christ, I say to you, that you will be freed from them. The healing of your body is good for you, for your family, for the animals and plants you tend; but the healing of your soul—believe this, though you do not understand it!—the healing of your soul is good for all the poor souls of the living, which are being tossed between good and evil, is good for all the poor souls of the dead, which by toil and suffering are being purified, as the victory of a soldier is good for the whole nation. It is also good for the angels, who, Jesus has told us, feel immense joy at the healing of a soul. Joy enhances their power; and do you think their power is for the darkness or for the light, for death or for life? Ask with faith, first for the healing of the soul, and then for the healing of the body!" From the steep hillside a sea of faces looked down on him; those highest up, where only the sound of his voice could be heard, were eager, and tear-stained. Of those nearest him, some were astonished, some enthusiastic, some doubtful. The tears were pouring down Noemi's pale face also. The students had put off their air of raillery. When Benedetto ceased, one of them came forward to speak, resolute and serious. At the same moment the old man exclaimed:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

Other voices repeated anxiously:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

In an instant the contagion had spread throughout the vanguard; they flung themselves on their knees, stretching out imploring arms:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

Benedetto sprang forward, his hands clenched in his hair, exclaiming:

"What are you doing again? What are you doing again?"

A shout rang out from above: "La miracolata! The girl who is healed!" The girl who had felt health returning to her, as she lay on Benedetto's bed, was coming down in search of him, leaning on the arm of an elder sister. He heeded neither the cry nor the movement among those up above, who parted, allowing the two women to pass. Being unable to persuade the crowd to rise, he himself fell upon his knees. Then those around him rose, and the excited movement and the cry of "La miracolata, la miracolata!" having reached them, they forced him to rise also; he did not seem to have heard. "La miracolata!" each one repeated to him. "La miracolata!" And they searched his face for a trace of satisfaction at the miracle, with eyes that called out "She is coming to you! You have healed her!" They acted as if he had not spoken to them only a few minutes before.

The young girl was coming down, as pale and sallow as the stony, sun-baked path, her gentle, sad, little face, resting against her sister's arm. And the sister looked sad also. The crowd parted before them, and Benedetto, stepping aside sought refuge behind Don Clemente; an involuntary action, which however, seemed premeditated. Every one was trembling and smiling, in the anticipation of another miracle. The two women were not deceived; they passed Don Clemente without so much as a glance, turned to Benedetto, and the elder said firmly:

"Holy man of God! You have healed this one, now heal the other also!"

Benedetto replied, almost under his breath, trembling violently:

"I am not a holy man; I did not heal this one, and for the other one of whom you speak, I can only pray."

When they had told him that the sick man was their brother, that he was in the hut, stretched on the bed, and suffering greatly, Benedetto said to Don Clemente: "Let us go and care for him!"

And he started forward with his master. Behind them the divided stream of people flowed together again, noisily. Benedetto turned, and forbade them to follow him; he ordered the women to attend to the young girl, who must not climb the steep hill on foot, under the burning rays of the sun. He ordered them to take her to the inn, put her to bed and refresh her with food and wine. Those who were following stopped, and the others stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The student who had once before asked to speak, approached him respectfully, and inquired if he and some of his friends might speak a few words with him alone, later on.

"Oh yes!" Benedetto answered, consenting with manly warmth and eagerness. Noemi, who was standing near, took heart.

"I also must ask for five minutes," she said in French, blushing; and then it immediately occurred to her she had thus shown that she knew him to be a man of culture; her face was aflame, as she repeated her petition in Italian.

Almost involuntarily Don Clemente pressed Benedetto's arm gently. Benedetto replied courteously, but somewhat drily:

"Do you wish to do a kind action? Care for that poor girl."

And he passed on.

He and Don Clemente entered the hovel alone. No one had followed them. An old woman, the sick man's mother, seeing him enter, threw herself weeping at his feet, repeating her daughter's words:

"Are you the holy man? Are you he? You have healed one of my children, now heal this one also."

At first, coming from the sunlight into that darkness, Benedetto could not distinguish anything, but presently he saw the man stretched on the bed; he was breathing hard, groaning and crying, and cursing the Saints, women, the village of Jenne, and his own unhappy fate. On her knees beside the bed, Maria Selva was wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. There was no one else in the cave. Near the luminous entrance the great cross, carved unevenly on the wall of yellowish stone, was repeating at that moment a dark and solemn word.

"Hope in God!" Benedetto answered the old woman gently. He went to the bed, bent over the sick man and felt his pulse. The old woman stopped crying, the sufferer stopped cursing and groaning. The buzzing of flies in the light fireplace could be heard.

"Have you sent for the doctor?" Benedetto whispered.

The old woman began to sob again,

"You heal him! You heal him! in the name of Jesus and Mary!"

Again the sick man's groans were heard. Maria Selva said softly to Benedetto:

"The doctor is in Subiaco. Signor Selva, whom you perhaps know, has gone to the chemist's. I am his wife."

At this point Giovanni returned, out of breath and worried. The chemist's shop was closed, the chemist absent. The parish priest had given him some Marsala, and some tourists from Rome, who had brought plenty of provisions, had given him brandy and coffee. Benedetto beckoned Don Clemente to his side, and whispered to him to bring the parish priest, for the man was dying. He would go for him himself, but it seemed cruel to the poor mother to leave them. Don Clemente went out without a word. A few steps from the hut, the party of smart people who had come from Rome out of curiosity about the Saint of Jenne, were holding a consultation; the party consisted of three ladies and four gentlemen, and was under the guidance of the citizen of Jenne, whom the Selvas had met on the hillside. On perceiving the Benedictine they spoke together rapidly, in an undertone, and then one of their number, a very fashionably dressed young man, screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and came towards Don Clemente, at whom the ladies were looking with admiration, and also with disappointment, their guide having informed them that he was not the Saint.

These people also wished for an interview with Benedetto. The ladies were especially anxious to speak with him. The young man added, with a derisive smile, that for his part, he did not consider himself worthy, Don Clemente answered very shortly, that for the present it was impossible to speak with Benedetto and he walked away. The young man informed the ladies that the Saint was in the tabernacle, under lock and key!

In the meantime Benedetto—although the distracted mother implored him not to use medicines, but to perform a miracle—was comforting the prostrate man with a few mouthfuls of the cordial Giovanni Selva had brought, but still more comforting were his gentle caresses, and the promise of other saving words, which would soon be brought to him. And the pitying voice, tender and grave, worked a miracle of peace. The sick man breathed with great difficulty, and still groaned, but he no longer cursed. The mother, wild with hope, murmured tearfully, with clasped hands.

"The miracle, the miracle, the miracle!"

"Caro [dear one]," Benedetto said, "you are in God's hand, and you feel its might. Give yourself up to Him, and you will feel its gentleness. Let His hand place you once more in the ocean of life, or place you in heaven, or place you where it will, but give yourself up, do not think of that. When you were a little child your mother carried you, and you asked neither how, nor when, nor why; you were in her arms, you were in her love, you asked nothing more. It is the same now, caro. I, who speak to you, have done much evil in my life, perhaps you also have done a little evil; perhaps you remember it. Weep, weep, resting thus on the bosom of the Father who is calling you, who longs to pardon, who longs to forget it all. Presently the priest will come, and you will tell him everything, all the evil you have done, just as you remember it, without anguish. And then, do you know who will come to you in the great mystery? Do you know, caro, what love, what pity, what joy, what life will come?"

Struggling in the shadow of death, his glassy eyes fixed on Benedetto, eyes which shone with an intense longing, and with the fear of being unable to express it, the poor young man who had misunderstood Benedetto's words, and thought he must confess to him, began telling him of his sins. The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and—understanding—gave a cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto, terrified, exclaimed: "No, caro, not to me, not to me!" But the sick man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto's neck, drawing him to him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over and over again "My God, my God!" and making a mighty effort not to hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man's embrace. And, in fact, he did not hear, nor would it have been easy to do so, for the words came so slowly, so brokenly, so confusedly. Still the parish priest did not appear, and Don Clemente did not return. Subdued voices and steps could be heard outside, and, sometimes a curious face peered in at the door, but no one entered. The dying man's words lost themselves in a confusion of weak sounds, and at last he was silent.

"Is there any one outside?" Benedetto inquired. "Let some one go to the parish priest, and bid him hasten."

Giovanni and Maria were attending to the mother, who, quite beside herself, was tossed between grief and anger. After having believed in the miracle, she would not now believe that her son had been reduced to this desperate condition by natural causes; at one moment she wept for him, and at the next cursed the medicines Benedetto had given him, although the Selvas assured her they were not medicines. Maria had put her arms round her, partly to comfort her and partly to hold her. She signed to Giovanni to go for the priest and Giovanni hurried away. The glistening eyes of the dying man were full of supplication. Benedetto said to him:

"My son, do you long for Christ?"

With an indescribable groan, he bowed his head feebly in assent. Benedetto kissed him and kissed him again, tenderly.

"Christ tells me that your sins are forgiven, and that you may depart in peace."

The glistening eyes lighted up with joy. Benedetto called the mother, who, escaping from Maria's open arms, threw herself upon her son. At that moment Don Clemente entered, looking exhausted; Giovanni and the parish priest were with him.

* * * * *

At the priest's house Don Clemente had found an ecclesiastic whom he did not know, arguing with the parish priest. According to what he said, a crowd of fanatics were about to carry the girl who had been healed by a miracle to the church of Sant' Andrea, to return thanks to God. It was the priest's duty to prevent such a scandal. If the healing of this girl were not an imposture, neither was it a fact. The would-be miracle-worker had also preached much rank heresy concerning miracles and eternal salvation. He had spoken of faith as being a natural virtue; he had even criticised Christ, who healed the sick. At present he was preparing another miracle with a second unfortunate victim. A stop must be put to this! Put a stop to it, indeed! The poor priest who already perceived the odour of the Holy Office, reflected that it was easy enough to say "put a stop to it," but how was it to be accomplished? Don Clemente's arrival at that point gave him a moment of relief. "Now," he told himself, "he will help me." But, on the contrary, things were worse than ever. When he had heard Don Clemente's sad message the strange priest exclaimed:

"You see! That is how these miracles end. You must not enter that heretic's house with the holy viaticum, unless he has first left it, and left it never to return."

Don Clemente's face flushed.

"He is not a heretic," said he. "He is a man of God!"

"You say so!" the other retorted.

"And you, consider well!" he added, turning to the parish priest. "But, after all, you are free to act as you please. It is none of my business. A rivederla!"

Having bowed to Don Clemente, he slipped out of the room, without another word.

"And now? And now?" groaned the unhappy priest, pressing his hands to his temples. "That is a terrible man, but I must not betray the Almighty! Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do!"

Indeed the parish priest had a holy fear of God, but he was also not without a certain fear (half holy, half human), of Don Clemente, of the austere conscience which would judge him. At that decisive moment the wisest course to pursue became suddenly clear to Don Clemente.

"Arrange for the viaticum," said he, "and come with me at once, to hear this poor young man's confession. Benedetto will show whether he be a heretic or a man of God!"

The servant came to say a gentleman begged the priest to make haste, for the sick man was dying.

Don Clemente, much exhausted, entered the hut, with Giovanni and the parish priest. He called Benedetto to him, standing near the door and spoke to him in an undertone. The rattling had begun in the sick man's throat. Benedetto listened with bowed head to the painful words which demanded of him a saintly humiliation; he knelt, without answering, before the cross he had carved on the rock and kissed it eagerly at the point where the tragic arms meet, as if to draw into himself from the furrow in the stone, the symbol of sacrifice, its love, its blessedness, its strength its life and then, rising, he went forth for ever.

* * * * *

The sun was disappearing in a whirling mass of smoke-like clouds rising, in the north, behind the village. The places which, only a short time before, had been astir with people, were now colourless and deserted. From the turnings of stony lanes, from behind half-open doors, round the corners of poor houses, women were peering. When Benedetto came in sight they all withdrew. He felt that Jenne knew of the agony of the sick man who had come to him in search of health, he felt that the hour of triumph had come for his adversaries. Don Clemente, the Master, the friend, had first asked him to lay aside his habit, and now asked him to go forth from his house, to go forth from Jenne. It is true he had asked in grief and love, still he had asked. Partly because of the bitterness of it all, partly because of his long fast, he had not been able to eat his mid-day meal of beans and bread—he felt ready to faint, and his sight was troubled. He sank down on the decayed threshold of a small, closed door, at the entrance to the little lane called della Corte. A long peal of thunder sounded above his head.

Little by little, as he rested, he recovered. He thought of the man who was dying in the desire of Christ, and a wave of sweetness swept his soul. He was filled with remorse that he had, for a few moments forgotten the Lord's great gift; that he had ceased to love the cross, as soon as he had drawn life and joy from it. He hid his face in his hands and wept silently. A slight noise above of a shutter being opened; something soft fell upon his head. With a start, he removed his hands from his eyes; at his feet lay a tiny wild rose. He shivered! For several days—either on returning to his hut at night, or on leaving it in the morning—he had found flowers on his threshold. He had never removed them. He simply placed them on one side upon a stone, that they might not be stepped on, that was all. Neither had he ever tried to discover what hand laid them there. Surely this tiny wild rose had fallen from the same hand. He did not raise his head, but he understood that even if he did not lift the rose, or make any movement towards it, he must, nevertheless, leave the spot. He tried to rise, but his limbs could, as yet, hardly support him, and he tarried a moment before moving away. The thunder rumbled again louder and longer. A small door was pushed open, and a young girl, dressed in black, looked out. She was fair, and as white as wax; her blue eyes were full of despair and of tears. Benedetto could not help turning his face towards her. He recognised the village schoolmistress, whom he had once seen for a moment at the priest's house. He was already moving away without greeting her, when she moaned softly: "Hear me!" Stepping back into the passage she fell upon her knees, stretched out beseeching hands to him, and dropped her head upon her breast.

Benedetto stopped. He hesitated a moment and then said, with dignified gravity:

"What do you want of me?"

It had become almost dark. The lightning flashed, the noise of the thunder filled the miserable little lane, and prevented the two from hearing each other. Benedetto approached the door.

"I have been told," the young girl answered, without raising her head, and pausing when the thunder crashed forth, "that you will perhaps be obliged to leave Jenne. A word spoken by you has given me life, but your departure will kill me. Repeat that word to me; say it for me, for me alone."

"What word?"

"You were with the Signor Arciprete, the parish priest, I was in the next room with the servant, and the door was open. You said that a man may deny the existence of God without really being an atheist or deserving eternal death, if that God, whose existence he denies, be placed before him in a shape repugnant to his intellect, and if he love Truth, Virtue, and his fellow-men, and by his life give proof of his love."

Benedetto was silent. Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.

"I am not the person in question," she said. "I believe; I am a Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and—only think of it—they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved."

While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large, slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust, hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment, which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.

"Tell me, tell me!" she begged, raising her eyes at last. "Say that my father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!"

Benedetto answered:

"Pray!"

"My God! Only that?"

"Do we pray for the pardon of such as may not be pardoned? Pray!"

"Oh! Thank you!—Are you ill?" These last words were whispered so softly that it was possible Benedetto did not hear them. He made a gesture of farewell, and started on, in the driving rain, that lashed and pushed the little dead, wild rose away, into the mud.

Either from a window, or from the door of the inn, where she was, with the sick girl of Arcinazzo, Noemi saw him pass. She borrowed an umbrella from the innkeeper, and followed him, braving the wind and the rain.

She followed him, distressed at seeing him bareheaded and without an umbrella, and reflecting that if he were not a Saint, one would think him insane. On entering the square where the church stands, she saw a door on the right open a little way; a tall, thin priest looked out. She believed the priest would invite Benedetto to come in, but, to Noemi's great vexation, when Benedetto was quite near him, the priest closed the door noisily. Benedetto entered the church of Sant' Andrea; she went in also. He approached the high altar and knelt down, while she remained near the door. The sacristan, who was dozing, seated on the steps of an altar, heard them enter, and, rising, went towards Benedetto. But he belonged to the Roman priest's party, and, recognising the heretic, turned back, and asked the foreign signorina if she could tell him anything about the sick man from Arcinazzo, who had been brought to the church that morning, when the sacristan had also seen her there. He added that his reason for inquiring was, that he had been ordered to wait for the parish priest, who was going to carry the viaticum to the man. Noemi knew that the young man from Arcinazzo was dying, but that was all.

"I see," said the sacristan, raising his voice intentionally. "He probably does not wish for Christ. These are their fine miracles! Thank God for the thunder and lightning, for had it not been for the storm, they would have brought the girl here!"

Then he went back to rest and doze on the steps.

Noemi could not turn her eyes away from Benedetto. It was not a fascination in the true sense of the word, nor was it the passionate sentiment of the young schoolmistress. She saw him sway, rest his hands on the steps and then turn with difficulty and sit down; and she did not ask herself if he were suffering. She gazed at him, but was more absorbed in herself than in him, absorbed in a gradual change which was taking place within her, and which was making her different, making her irrecognisable to herself; a still confused and blind sense of immense truth, which was being borne in upon her, in mysterious ways, and which strained painfully at the innermost fibres of her heart. Her brother-in-law's religious arguments might have troubled her mind, but they had never touched her heart. Why was it touched now? And how? What had that pale, emaciated man said, after all? Ah I but the look, the voice, the-what else? Something it was impossible to grasp. Perhaps a presentiment—But of what? Ma! Chi sa? Who knows? A presentiment of some future bond between this man and herself. She had followed him, had entered the church that she might not lose the opportunity of speaking to him, and now she was almost afraid of him. And then to talk to him of Jeanne! Had Jeanne understood him? How had Jeanne, loving him, been able to resist the current of higher thought which was in him, which perhaps, at that time, was latent, but which a Jeanne should have felt? What had she loved? The lower man? If she, Noemi, spoke with him, she would speak not only of Jeanne, but of religion also. She would ask him what his own religion really was. And then what if he should answer something foolish, something commonplace? For this reason she was almost afraid to speak to him.

A dash of rain splashed through a broken window upon the pavement. It seemed to Noemi she could never forget that hour, that great empty church, that dark sky, that dash of rain like falling tears, that world's outcast on the steps of the high altar, absorbed in what sublime thoughts God alone knew, and the sacristan, his enemy, who had gone to sleep on the steps of another altar, with the easy familiarity of a colleague of the Almighty. Some time elapsed, perhaps an hour, perhaps more. The church grew lighter; the rain seemed to be stopping. It struck four o'clock. Don Clemente entered the church, followed by Maria and Giovanni who were glad to find Noemi there, for they had not known where she was. The sacristan, who knew Don Clemente, came forward.

"Dunque? The viaticum?"

The viaticum? Alas, the man was dead; they had thought of the viaticum too late! The Padre inquired for Benedetto, and Noemi pointed to where he sat. They spoke of the interview which Noemi desired. Don Clemente blushed and hesitated, but could not refuse to ask for it, and he went to join Benedetto.

While the two conversed, Giovanni and Maria related to Noemi all that had taken place. After the arrival of the parish priest, the sick man had not spoken again. Confession had not been possible. Meanwhile the storm had burst with such violence as to render it impossible for the priest to go for the holy oil. They had thought the sick man would live some hours longer, but at three o'clock he had expired. As soon as the torrents of rain would permit, Don Clemente and the priest had gone out, but Giovanni and Maria had remained with the mother until the arrival of the dead man's elder sister; the mother seemed to have quite lost her senses. Then they also had left, to go in search of Noemi. Not finding her at the inn, they had started for the church. In the square they had met the Padre, coming out of one of the best houses. They did not know what errand had taken him there. Maria spoke enthusiastically of Benedetto, of his spiritual ministrations to the dying man. She and her husband were very indignant at the war which had been waged against him by people who would now find no difficulty in turning the whole town against him. They censured the parish priest's weakness, and were not satisfied with Don Clemente himself. He should not have aided in driving his disciple away. Why had he been the one to tell him to leave, when the parish priest came? His first mistake had been in bringing the Abbot's message. Noemi knew nothing of this message. When she heard that Benedetto was to be deprived of his habit her indignation burst forth: Benedetto must not obey.

Meanwhile the Padre and his disciple were approaching the door. Benedetto stood apart while the Padre came to tell the Selvas and Noemi that as several persons wished to speak with Benedetto, he had arranged that they should see him at the house of a gentleman of the town. He must now take Benedetto there, but in a few minutes he would return to the church for them.

* * * * *

The gentleman was the same person the Selvas had met on the hillside of Jenne, where he was awaiting the Duchess di Civitella. The Duchess had arrived shortly after, with two other ladies and several gentlemen, among them a journalist, and the young man of the eye-glass. The citizen, of Jenne was beside himself with satisfaction; on that day he was in a truly ducal state of graciousness and magnificence! Therefore, when Don Clemente—following the parish priest's advice—appealed to him, he had no difficulty in obtaining from him the promise of an old suit of black, a black tie, and a broad brimmed black hat, for Benedetto.

In the room where the secular clothes were spread out, the disciple, having removed his habit, began to put them on in silence, and his master, who was standing at the window, could not repress a sob. Presently Benedetto called softly to him.

"Padre mio," said he, "look at me!"

Arrayed in the new clothes, which were too long and too large for him, he smiled, showing himself at peace. The Padre seized his hand, intending to kiss it, but Benedetto caught it hastily away, and opening his arms, pressed to his breast the man who now seemed the younger, the son, the penitent instrument of shameful human persecutions, which, upon that heart, beating with divine fire, turned to dust, to ashes, and vanished! They stood a long time thus, locked in a silent embrace.

"I did it, for your sake," Don Clemente murmured at last. "I myself brought the humiliating message, that I might see the grace of the Lord shine, in this humble dress, even brighter than in the habit."

Benedetto interrupted him. "No, no!" said he. "Do not tempt me, do not tempt me! Let us rather thank God, who is chastening me for that presumptuous joy I experienced at Santa Scolastica, when you offered me the Benedictine habit, and I reflected that in my vision, I had seen myself dying in that dress. My heart was uplifted as if crying out: 'I am beloved indeed of God!' And now—"

"Ah! but—!" the Padre exclaimed, and then stopped suddenly, his face suffused with colour. Benedetto believed he understood what was in his mind: "It is not said that you may not sometime resume the habit you have just laid aside! It is not said that the vision may not yet come true!" He had not wished to utter this thought, either from prudence, or in order not to allude to Benedetto's death. He smiled and embraced his master. The Padre hastened to speak of other things; he apologised for the parish priest, who was much grieved by what was happening, and would not have sent Benedetto away, had he not feared his superiors. He was not a Don Abbondio [1]; he did not fear for himself, but dreaded scandal of a conflict with the authorities.

[Footnote: Don Abbondio-a priest in Mazzoni's work I Promessi Sposi. (Translator's Note.)]

"I forgive him," said Benedetto, "and I pray God to forgive him, but this lack of moral courage is a great evil in the Church. Many, rather than contend against their superiors, will contend against God Himself. And they rid themselves of all responsibility by substituting their superiors' conscience to their own wherein God speaks. They do not comprehend that by striving against what is good, or by refraining from striving against what is evil, in obedience to superiors, they give scandal to the world, they stain the Christian character in the eyes of the world. They do not comprehend that both their duty toward God and their duty toward their superiors may be fulfilled, by never striving against what is good, by never refraining from striving against what is evil, by never judging their superiors, by obeying them with perfect obedience in everything that is neither opposed to what is good nor in favour of what is evil, by laying even life itself at their feet, but not their conscience; their conscience, never! Thus the Inferior, stripped of everything save conscience and just obedience, becomes a pure grain of the salt of the earth, and where many such grains are united, that to which they adhere will be saved from corruption, and that to which they do not adhere, will rot and fall to pieces!"

As he talked Benedetto became transfigured. With the last words he rose to his feet. His eyes flashed, his brow shone with the august light of the spirit of Truth. He placed his hands on Don Clemente's shoulders.

"Dear Master," he said, his face softening, "I am leaving the roof, the bread, the habit which were offered me, but while I have life, I will not cease telling of Christ, who is the Truth! I go forth, but not to remain silent. Do you remember giving me the letter to read, that St. Peter Damian wrote to a layman, who preached? That man preached in the church. I will not preach in the church, but if Christ wish me to speak in the dwellings of the poor, I will speak in the dwellings of the poor; if He wish me to speak in the palace, I will speak in the palace; if He wish me to speak in the cubicles, I will speak in the cubicles; if He wish me to speak on the housetops, I will speak on the housetops. Think of the man who laboured in Christ's name, and was forbidden to do so by the disciples. Christ said: 'Forbid him not.' Shall we obey the disciple or shall we obey Christ?"

"You are right about the man in the Gospel, caro," Don Clemente replied, "but remember that one may mistake what is really Christ's will."

Don Clemente's heart did not speak precisely thus, but the heart's imprudent, undisciplined words were not allowed to pass his lips.

"After all, Padre mio," Benedetto continued, "believe me, I am not banished because I preached the Gospel to the people. There are two things you must know. The first is this. A proposal was made to me here in Jenne by a person whom I never saw again after that interview, to take holy orders, that I might become a missionary. I replied that I did not feel called to that work. The second incident is this. On one of the first days after my arrival at Jenne, while talking religion with the parish priest, I spoke of the eternal vitality of Catholic doctrine, of the power which the soul of Catholic doctrine possesses, of continually transforming its own body, increasing its strength and beauty unlimitedly. You know Padre mio, from whom—through you—these thoughts came to me. The parish priest must have repeated my words, which pleased him. The next day he asked me whether I had met Selva at Subiaco, and had read his books. He said he had not read them himself, but he knew they were to be avoided. Padre mio, you will understand now. It is on account of Signor Selva, and of your friendship for him, that I am leaving Jenne thus. I have never loved you as I love you now. I do not know whither I shall wander, but wherever the Lord may send me, be it far or near, do not let your soul forsake me!"

As he spoke these words, his voice shaking with sorrow and love, Benedetto again threw himself into the arms of his master, who—himself torn by a tempest of conflicting emotions—knew not whether to ask his forgiveness, or promise him glory, the true glory, and could only say, with laboured breath:

"You do not know it, but I, too, have need that your soul should not forsake me!"

Touching it with careful, reverent hands; Don Clemente made the habit his disciple had laid aside into a bundle. When it was folded he told Benedetto that he could not offer him the hospitality of Santa Scolastica; he had intended asking Signor Selva to take him in, but he now doubted if it would be opportune and in the interests of his mission for Benedetto to put himself so openly under the protection of Signor Giovanni.

Benedetto smiled.

"Oh! certainly not!" said he. "Shall we fear the darkness more than we love the light? But I must pray God to make His will known to me, if it be possible. Perhaps He desires that, perhaps something else. And now will you send me some food and a little wine? And then let those come in, who wish to speak with me."

Don Clemente was secretly astonished that Benedetto should ask him for wine, but he did not allow his astonishment to appear. He said he would also send him the young girl who was with the Selvas. Benedetto looked at him questioningly. He remembered that when the girl, whom he had seen later in the church, had asked for an interview, Don Clemente had pressed his arm, as if silently warning him to be on his guard. Don Clemente grew very red while he explained his action. He had seen the young girl at Santa Scolastica with another person. His movement had been involuntary. The other person was now far away. "We shall not meet again," said he, "because as soon as I have sent you the food, and spoken to these people, I must start for Santa Scolastica."