While accompanying the ladies down the dark stairs to their carriage, the Professor remarked:

"What is greatly feared is that Benedetto will not live. Mayda at least fears this."

Signora Albacina, who was descending the stairs leaning on the Professor's arm, exclaimed, without pausing:

"Oh! poor fellow! What is the matter with him?" "Ma! Who can say?" the Professor replied. "Some incurable disease, it would seem, the consequence of typhoid fever, which he had at Subiaco, but above all, of the life of hardship he led, a life of penance and fasting."

And they continued their long descent in silence.

It was only on reaching the foot of the stairs that they perceived their companion had remained behind. The Professor hastily retraced his steps, and found Jeanne standing on the second landing, clinging to the banisters. At first she neither spoke nor moved; but presently she murmured:

"I cannot see!"

Guarnacci, not knowing, did not notice that moment of silence, or the low and uncertain tone of her voice. He offered her his arm, and led her down, apologising for the darkness, and explaining that the proprietor's avarice was to blame for it. Jeanne entered Signora Albacina's carriage, which was to take her to the Grand Hotel. On the way Signora Albacina spoke with regret of what Guarnacci had just told her. Jeanne did not open her lips. Her silence troubled her friend.

"Were you not pleased with the discourse?" she said. She was in complete ignorance of Jeanne's religious opinions.

"Yes," her companion answered. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing! I thought you seemed dissatisfied. Then you are not sorry you came?"

Signora Albacina was greatly astonished when Jeanne seized her hand and replied: "I am so grateful to you!"

The voice was low and quiet, the pressure of the hand almost violent.

"Indeed! indeed!" thought Signora Albacina. "This is one of the future 'Ladies of the Holy Spirit'!"

"For my part," she said aloud, "I am sure I shall keep to my old religion, the religion of the non-concessionists. They may be Pharisees or anything else you like, but I fear that if this old religion is subjected to so much retouching and restoring, it will tumble down, and nothing will be left standing. Besides, if we followed these Benedettos, too many things would have to be changed. No, no! However, the man interests me extremely. Now we must try to see him. We must see him! Especially as he seems doomed to speedy death. Don't you think so? How can we manage it? Let us think!"

"I have no wish to see him," Jeanne said hastily.

"Really?" her friend exclaimed. "But how is that? Explain this riddle!"

"It is quite simple. I have no desire to see him."

"Curious!" thought Signora Albacina. The carriage drew up before the entrance to the Grand Hotel.

In the hall Jeanne met Noemi and her brother-in-law, who were coming out. "At last!" said Noemi. "Run, make haste, Your brother is furious with this Jeanne, who stays away so long! We have just left him, because the doctor has arrived."

The Dessalles had been in Rome a fortnight. Cold, damp weather at the beginning of October, a projected essay on Bernini, which had succeeded the projected novel, had persuaded Carlino to satisfy Signora Albacina sooner than he had intended, by leaving Villa Diedo before winter set in for the milder climate of Rome. This to the great joy of his sister. Two or three days after his arrival he had a slight attack of bronchitis. He declared he was in consumption, shut himself up in his room, with the intention of remaining there all winter, wished to see the doctor twice a day, and tyrannised over Jeanne with merciless egotism, even numbering her moments of freedom. She made herself his slave; she seemed to delight in this unreasonable extra burden, of sacrifice which overflowed the measure of her sisterly affection. In her heart she offered it, with sweet eagerness, to Benedetto. She often saw the Selvas and Noemi; not at their home, but at the Grand Hotel. The Selvas themselves were captivated by the fascination of this woman, so superior, so beautiful, so gentle and sad. All she had heard from Guarnacci concerning Benedetto she had already heard from Noemi. But she had not been aware of Professor Mayda's sad opinion. Partly from kindness, but partly also that her own emotion might not be revealed, Noemi had hidden it from her,

* * * * *

Carlino received her unkindly. The doctor, who had found his pulse rather frequent, concluded at once that it was an angry pulse. He jested a few minutes about the serious nature of the illness, and then took his departure. Carlino inquired roughly where Jeanne had been, so long, and she did not hesitate to tell him. She did not, however, mention Benedetto's real name.

"Were you not ashamed," said he, "to be eavesdropping like that?"

Without giving her time to answer, he began protesting against the new tendencies he had discovered in her.

"Tomorrow you will be going to confession, and the day after you will be reciting the rosary!"

Underneath his usually tolerant and courteous language, and the liking he displayed for not a few priests, lurked a real anti-religious mania. The idea that his sister might, some day, draw near to the priests, to faith, to acts of piety, nearly drove him out of his senses.

Jeanne did not answer, but meekly asked if she should read to him, as she was in the habit of doing in the evening. Carlino declared shortly that he did not wish to be read to, and, pretending to feel draughts, kept her for at least a quarter of an hour, inspecting the doors, the windows, the walls, and the floor itself, with a lighted candle in her hand. Then he sent her to bed.

But when Jeanne reached her own room she thought neither of sleeping nor of undressing. She put out the light, and sat down on the bed.

Carriages rumbled in the street, steps sounded, and women's dresses rustled in the corridor; sitting motionless there in the dark she did not hear. She had put out the light that she might think, that she might see only her own thoughts, only that idea which had taken possession of her while coming down-stairs at Casa Guarnacci leaning on the Professor's arm, after she had heard those terrible words: "We fear he will not live!" and had almost lost consciousness. In the carriage with Signora Albacina, in the room with her brother, even while obliged to talk with one or the other, to pay attention to so many different things, this idea, this proposal, which the burning heart was making to the will, had been continually flashing within her. Now it flashed no longer. Jeanne contemplated it lying quiet within her. In that figure sitting motionless on the bed, in the darkness, two souls were confronting each other in silence. A humble Jeanne, passionate, sure of being able to sacrifice all to love, was measuring her strength against a Jeanne unconsciously haughty, and sure of possessing a hard and cold truth. The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor. Suddenly the two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought:

"When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself: At least, you did that!"

She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table, chose a sheet of paper, and wrote:

"To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,——

"I believe.

"JEANNE DESSALLE."

When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.

The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart. The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost without a struggle. Filled with a mortal bitterness, she tore the sheet, stained with the word it was impossible to maintain, impossible even to write honestly. The light once more extinguished, she accused the Almighty—if, indeed, He existed—of cruelty, and wept in this darkness of her own making, wept unrestrainedly.

The clock of St. Peter's struck eight. Benedetto left a little group of people at the corner of Via di Porta Angelica, and turned, alone, into Bernini's colonnade, his steps directed towards the bronze portal. He paused to listen to the roar of the fountains, to gaze at the clustered lights of the four candelabra round the obelisk, and—tremulous, opaque against the moon's face—the mighty jet of the fountain on the left. In five minutes, or, perhaps, in fifteen minutes, he would find himself in the presence of the Pope. His mind was concentrated on this culminating point, and vibrated there as did the sparkling, ever-rising water at the apex of the mighty jet. The square was empty. No one would see him enter the Vatican save that spectral diadem of saints standing rigid over there on the summit of the opposite colonnade. The saints and the fountains were saying to him with one voice, that he believed he was passing through a solemn hour, but that this atom of time, he himself and the Pontiff, would soon pass away, would be lost for ever in the kingdom of forgetfulness, while the fountains continued their monotonous lament, and the saints their silent contemplation. But he, on the contrary, felt that the word of truth is the word of eternal life, and, concentrating his thoughts once more within himself, he closed his eyes and prayed with intense fervour, as for two days he had prayed that the Spirit might awaken this word in his breast, might bring it to his lips when he should stand before the Pope.

He had expected some one between eight o'clock and a quarter past. The quarter had already struck, and no one had appeared. He turned and gazed at the bronze portal. Only one wing of it was open, and he could see lights beyond. From time to time small groups of dwarfish figures passed into it, as tiny, heedless moths might fly into the yawning jaws of a lion. At last a priest approached the portal from within and beckoned. Benedetto drew near. The priest said:

"You have come about Sant' Anselmo?"

That was the question which had been agreed upon. When Benedetto had assented, the priest signed to him to enter.

"Please come this way," said he.

Benedetto followed him. They passed between the pontifical guards, who gave the priest the military salute. Turning to the right they mounted the Scala Pia. At the entrance to the courtyard of San Damaso there were other guards, other salutes, and an order given by the priest in a low tone; Benedetto did not hear it. They crossed the courtyard, leaving the entrance to the library on their left and on their right the door by which the Pope's apartments are reached. High above them the glass of the Logge shone in the moonlight. Benedetto, recalling an audience the late Pontiff had granted him, was astonished at being conducted by this strange way. Having crossed the courtyard in a straight line, the priest entered the narrow passage leading to the small stairway called "dei Mosaici," and stopped before the door opening on the right, where the stairway called "del Triangolo" descends. "Are you acquainted with the Vatican?" he inquired.

"I am acquainted with the Museums and the Logge," Benedetto replied. "The predecessor of the present Pontiff once received me in his private apartment; but I am not acquainted with any other parts."

"You have never been here?"

"Never."

The priest preceded him up the stair, which was dimly illuminated by small electric lights. Suddenly, where the first flight reaches a landing, the lights went out. Benedetto, pausing with one foot on the landing, heard his guide run rapidly up some stairs on the right. Then all was silence. He supposed the light had gone out by accident, and that the priest had gone to turn it on again. He waited. No light, no footfall, no voice. He stepped on to the landing; stretching out his hands in the darkness, he touched a wall on the left; he went forward towards the right, feeling his way. By touching them with his foot he became aware of two flights of stairs which branched from the landing. He waited again, never doubting the priest would return.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed and the priest did not come. What could have happened. Had they wished to deceive him, to make sport of him? But why? Benedetto would not allow himself to dwell upon a suspicion about which it was useless to speculate. He reflected rather upon what it was best to do. It did not seem reasonable to wait any longer. Had he better turn back? Had he better go up still higher? In that case, which stair should he choose? He looked into himself, questioning the Ever-Present One.

No, he would not turn back. The idea was displeasing to him. He started up one of the flights, without choosing—the one leading to the servants' rooms. It was short; presently Benedetto found himself on another landing. Now, he had heard the priest run up many stairs rapidly and without stopping, and the noise of his steps had been lost far, far above. He came down again, and tried the other flight. It was longer. The priest must have mounted this one. He decided to follow the priest.

On reaching the top he passed through a low door, and found himself upon the Loggia, illumined by the moon. He looked about him. Near at hand, on the right, a gateway divided this Loggia from another one, the two meeting there and forming a right angle. Far away, on the left, the Loggia terminated at a closed door. The full moon shone through the great, glazed spaces, upon the pavement; showed the sides of the courtyard of San Damaso: and in the background, between the two enormous black wings of the Palace, humble roofs, the trees of Villa Cesi and the lights of Sant' Onofrio were visible. Both the door on the left, and the gateway on the right appeared to be closed. Again and again Benedetto looked from right to left. Little by little he began to recall former impressions. Yes, he had been in that Loggia before, he had seen that gateway when on his way to visit the Gallery of Inscriptions—the Via Appia of the Vatican—with an acquaintance of his, a reader in the "Vaticana." Yes, now he remembered quite well. The door on the left at the end of the Loggia, must lead to the apartments of the Cardinal Secretary of State. The Loggia beyond the gateway was that of Giovanni da Udine; the great barred windows opening on to it were the windows of the Borgia apartment, and the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions must be precisely in the angle. On that former occasion a Swiss guard had stood by the gate. Now there was no one there. The place was quite deserted; on the right and on the left silence reigned.

To try the door of the Cardinal Secretary of State's apartment was not to be thought of. Benedetto pushed the gate. It was open. He paused, finding himself before the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions. Again he listened. Profound silence. An inward voice seemed to say to him: "Mount the steps. Enter!" Fearlessly he mounted the five steps.

The Via Appia of the Vatican, as broad, perhaps, as the ancient way, contained not a single lamp. At regular intervals pale streaks of light lay across the pavement, falling through the windows, which, from among the tombstones, the cippi, and the pagan sarcophagi, look down upon Rome. No light fell through the windows of the Christian wall, which overlook the courtyard of the Belvedere. The distant end of the Gallery, towards the Chiaramonti Museum, was shrouded in complete darkness. Then, realising that he was in the very heart of the immense Vatican, Benedetto was seized with a terror mingled with awe. He approached a great window, from whence he could see Castel Sant' Angelo and the innumerable tiny lights dotted over the lower city, while higher up, and more brilliant, those of the Quirinal shone against the horizon. Not the sight of illumined Rome, but the sight of a low and narrow bench, running along below the cippi and the sarcophagi, calmed his spirit. Then, in the dim light, he distinguished a canopy, which was already half demolished. What could it mean? Along the opposite wall ran a second bench, exactly like the first. Proceeding, he stumbled against something which proved to be a large armchair. Now terror had given place to a fixed purpose. The imperious, inward voice, which had already commanded him to enter, said to him, "Go forward!" The voice was so clear, so loud, that a sudden flash illumined his memory.

He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had forgotten—and now the memory of it had flashed back to him—that a spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall with his fist. It was wood—a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited. He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared; the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out, moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if nothing strange had taken place:

"You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness."

He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself remaining outside.

On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table, and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.

The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: "Rise. How did you come?"

The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:

Benedetto rose, and answered:

"From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I came alone."

"Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find me here?"

When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a chair opposite him:

"Be seated, my son."

Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope's ascetic and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise, while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old furniture. One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library, of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in contemplation of the Pope's face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him, saying, with sweet dignity:

"Non mihi, sed Petro."

Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope passed him a sheet of paper, and pushed the little lamp nearer to him.

"Look," said he. "Do you know that writing?"

Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of reverent sorrow.

"Yes," he replied. "It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores."

His Holiness continued:

"Now read. Read aloud."

Benedetto read:

"Monsignore,—

"I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note, in an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to God out of the fire of a sinful passion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi's death, by the perusal of this document, which might come to be looked upon in the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.

"Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious stewardship. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may deem best.

"And pray for the soul of

Your poor

DON GIUSEPPE FLORES."

Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff's face, waiting.

"Are you Piero Maironi?" he said.

"Yes, your Holiness."

The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.

"First of all, I am glad you are alive," he said. "That Bishop believed you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth."

The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto's eyes; Benedetto bowed his head slightly. "You have written here," the Pontiff began, "that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can you recall concerning that part of your vision?"

"My vision," Benedetto answered, "grew more and more indistinct in my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica—about three years—partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff, remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago, however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice, very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward."

"And when you knocked at the door," the Pope inquired, "did you know you would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the library?"

"No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand."

The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked that the manuscript contained the words: "At first a man dressed in black guided me." Benedetto did not remember this.

"You know," the Pope continued, "that prophecy alone is not sufficient proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to assert that—but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when you had the vision?"

"I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from God, at having been deaf to His calls, an infinite gratitude for His patient kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen, really seen, shining clear and white against a dark background, those words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been so dear to me: 'Magister adest et vocat te.' Don Giuseppe Flores was officiating, and Mass was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flash!"

Benedetto's chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.

"It may have been a delusion," he said; "but it was not the work of malign spirits."

"The evil spirits," the Pontiff said, "do sometimes masquerade as angels of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision, later on?"

Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.

"Perhaps—on one occasion," said he, "for one moment, at Santa Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot's name, offered me the habit of a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne. Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated God to pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me."

The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.

Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table, seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over. He laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and once more broke the silence:

"My son," he said, "I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever went to Jenne."

Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not wishing to interrupt the Pope, who continued:

"It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little favour?"

In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.

"I understand," the Pope said, "and, I must confess, your prayer is most Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?"

Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.

"You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker, and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also——"

The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to certain things.

"Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can you answer, my son?"

"Holy Father," Benedetto said calmly, "the Spirit is answering for me in your heart."

The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.

"Explain your meaning," he said.

"God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of these accusations."

At these words of Benedetto's, the Pope knit his brows slightly.

"Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!"

"Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?" the Pope exclaimed.

He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.

"No," he answered, "I do not know."

The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair, let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.

While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and then broke the silence.

"Do you believe," said he, "that you really have a mission?"

Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.

"Yes, I do believe it."

"And why do you believe it?"

"Holy Father, because every one comes into the world with a mission written in his nature. Had I never had this vision, or received other extraordinary signs, my nature, which is eminently religious, would still have made religious action incumbent upon me. How can I say it? But I will say it"—here Benedetto's voice trembled with emotion—"as I have said it to no one else, I believe, I know that God is the Father of us all; but I feel His paternity in my nature. Mine is hardly a sense of duty, it is a sense of sonship."

"And do you believe it is your duty to exercise the religious action here and now?"

Benedetto clasped his hands, as if already imploring attention.

"Yes," said he, "here also, and now."

When he had spoken he fell upon his knees, his hands still clasped.

"Rise," said the Holy Father. "Utter freely what the Spirit shall dictate."

Benedetto did not rise.

"Forgive me," he said, "my message is to the Pontiff alone, and here I am not heard by the Pontiff only."

The Pope started, and gave him a questioning glance, full of severity.

Benedetto, looking towards a door behind the Pope, raised his eyebrows, and slightly lifted his chin.

His Holiness seized a silver bell which stood on the table, commanded Benedetto by a gesture to rise, and then rang the bell. The same priest as before appeared at the door of the Gallery. The Pope ordered him to summon Don Teofilo to the Gallery; Don Teofilo was the faithful valet whom he had brought with him from his archbishopric in the South. Upon his arrival the priest himself was to await His Holiness in the halls of the Library. "You will pass through this room, on your way back," he said.

Several minutes elapsed. They awaited the priest's return in silence. The Pontiff, lost in thought, never raised his eyes from the little table. Benedetto, standing, kept his eyes closed. He opened them when the priest reappeared. When he had passed out through the suspicious door, the Pope made a sign with his hand, and Benedetto spoke in a low voice. The Pontiff listened, grasping the arms of his chair, his body bent forward, his head bowed.

"Holy Father," Benedetto said, "the Church is diseased. Four evil spirits have entered into her body, to wage war against the Holy Spirit. One is the spirit of falsehood. And the spirit of falsehood has transformed itself into an angel of light, and many shepherds, many teachers in the Church, many pious and virtuous ones among the faithful, listen devoutly to this spirit of falsehood, believing they are listening to an angel. Christ said: 'I am the Truth.' But many in the Church, even good and pious souls, separate truth in their hearts, have no reverence for that truth which they do not call 'religious,' fear that truth will destroy truth; they oppose God to God, prefer darkness to light, and thus also do they train men. They call themselves the faithful, and do not understand how weak, how cowardly is their faith, how foreign to them is the spirit of the apostle, which probes all things. Worshippers of the letter, they wish to force grown men to exist upon a diet fit for infants, which diet grown men refuse. They do not understand that though God be infinite and unchangeable, man's conception, of Him grows ever grander from century to century, and that the same may be said of all Divine Truth. They are responsible for a fatal perversion of the Faith which corrupts the entire religious life; for the Christian, who by an effort, has bent his will to accept what they accept, to refuse what they refuse, believes he has accomplished the greatest thing in God's service, whereas he has I accomplished less than nothing, and it remains for him to live his faith in the word of Christ, in the teachings of Christ; it remains for him to live the 'fiat voluntas tua' which is everything. Holy Father, to-day few Christians know that religion does not consist chiefly in the clinging of the intellect to formulas of truth, but rather in actions, and a manner of life in conformity with this truth, and that the fulfilment of negative religious duties, and the recognition of obligations towards the ecclesiastical authority, do not alone correspond to true Faith. And those who know this, those who do not separate truth in their hearts, those who worship the God of truth, who are on fire with a fearless faith in Christ, in the Church and in truth—I know such men, Holy Father—those are striven against with acrimony, are branded as heretics, are forced to remain silent, and all this is the work of the spirit of falsehood, which for centuries has been weaving, in the Church, a web of traditional deceit, by means of which those who to-day are its servants believe they are serving God, as did those who first persecuted the Christians. Your Holiness—"

Here Benedetto sank upon one knee. The Pope did not move. His head seemed to have drooped still lower. The white skull-cap was almost entirely within the radius of the little lamp.

"I have read this very day, great words you spoke to your former parishioners concerning the many revelations of the God of truth in Faith, and in Science and also directly and mysteriously in the human soul. Holy Father the hearts of many, of very many, priests and laymen belong to the Holy Spirit; the spirit of falsehood has not been able to enter into them, not even in the garb of an angel. Speak one word, Holy Father, perform one action which shall lift up those hearts, devoted to the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff! Before the whole Church honour some of these men, some of these ecclesiastics, against whom the spirit of falsehood is striving. Raise some to the episcopal chair, some to the Holy College! This also, Holy Father! If it be necessary, counsel expounders and theologians to advance prudently, for science, in order to progress, must be prudent; but do not allow the Index or the Holy Office to condemn, because they are bold to excess, men who are an honour to the Church, whose minds are full of truth, whose hearts are full of Christ, who fight in defence of the Catholic faith! And as Your Holiness has said that God reveals His truths even in the secret souls of men, do not allow external devotions to multiply, their number is already sufficient, but recommend to the pastors the practice and teaching of inward prayer!"

Benedetto paused a moment, exhausted. The Pope raised his head, and looked at the kneeling man, who was gazing fixedly at him with sorrowful, luminous eyes, under knitted brows, the trembling of his hands betraying the effort of the spirit. The Pope's face bore traces of intense emotion. He wished to tell Benedetto to rise; but he would not speak, fearing his very voice would reveal his emotion. He insisted by gestures, and at last Benedetto rose. Drawing the chair towards him, he rested his hands, still tightly clasped, on its back, and once more began to speak.

"If the clergy neglect to teach the people to pray inwardly—and this is as salutary to the soul as certain superstitions are contaminating to it—it is the work of the second spirit of evil, disguised as an angel of light, which infests the Church. This is the spirit of domination of the clergy. Those priests who have the spirit of domination are ill-pleased when souls communicate directly and in the natural way with God, going to Him for counsel and direction. Their aim is righteous! Thus does the evil one deceive their conscience, which in its turn deceives; their aim is righteous. But they themselves wish to direct these souls, in the character of mediator, and the souls grow weary, timid, servile. Perhaps there are not many such; the worst crimes of the spirit of domination are of a different nature. It has suppressed the ancient and holy Catholic liberty. It seeks to place obedience first among the virtues, even where it is not exacted by the laws. It desires to impose submission even where it is not obligatory, retractions which offend the conscience; wherever a group of men assemble for good works, it wishes to take the command, and if they decline to submit to this command, all support is withdrawn from them. It even strives to carry religious authority outside the sphere of religion. Holy Father, Italy knows this! But what is Italy? It is not for her that I speak, but for the whole Catholic world. Holy Father, you may not yet have experienced it, but this spirit of domination will strive to exert its influence over you, yourself. Do not yield, Holy Father! You are the Governor of the Church; do not allow others to govern you; do not allow your power to become as a glove for the invisible hands of others. Have public counsellors; let the bishops be summoned often to national councils; let the people take part in the elections of bishops, choosing men who are beloved and respected by the people; and let the bishops mingle with the masses, not only to pass tinder triumphal arches, to be saluted by clanging bells, but to become acquainted with the masses, to encourage them in the imitation of Christ. Let them do these things rather than shut themselves up in the episcopal palaces, like princes of the Orient, as so many now do. And give them all the authority which is compatible with that of Peter.

"May I continue, Your Holiness?"

The Pope, who while Benedetto had been speaking had kept his eyes fixed on his face, now bowed his head slightly, in answer.

"The third evil spirit which is corrupting the Church does not disguise itself as an angel of light, for it well knows it cannot deceive; it is satisfied with the garb of common, human honesty. This is the spirit of avarice. The Vicar of Christ dwells in this royal palace as he dwelt in his episcopal palace, with the pure heart of poverty. Many venerable pastors dwell in the Church with the same heart, but the spirit of poverty is not preached sufficiently, not preached as Christ preached it. The lips of Christ's ministers are too often over-complaisant to those who seek riches. There are those among them who bow the head respectfully before the man who has much, simply because he has much; there are those who let their tongues flatter the greedy, and too many preachers of the word and of the example of Christ deem it just for them to revel in the pomp and honours attending on riches, to cleave with their souls to the luxury riches bring. Father, exhort the clergy to show those greedy for gain, be they rich or poor, more of that charity which admonishes, which threatens, which rebukes. Holy Father!——"

Benedetto ceased speaking. There was an expression, of fervent appeal in the gaze fixed upon the Pope.

"Well?" the Pontiff murmured.

Benedetto spread wide his arms, and continued:

"The Spirit urges me to say more. It is not the work of a day, but let us prepare for the day—not leaving this task to the enemies of God and of the Church—let us prepare for the day on which the priests of Christ shall set the example of true poverty; when it shall be their duty to live in poverty, as it is their duty to live in chastity; and let the words of Christ to the Seventy-two serve them as a guide in this. Then the Lord will surround the least of them with such honours, with such reverence as does not to-day exist in the hearts of the people for the princes of the Church. They will be few in number, but they will be the light of the world. Holy Father, are they that to-day? Some among them are, but the majority shed neither light nor darkness."

At this point the Pontiff for the first time bowed his head in sorrowful acquiescence.

"The fourth spirit of evil," Benedetto continued "is the spirit of immobility. This is disguised as an angel of light. Catholics, both ecclesiastics and laymen, who are dominated by the spirit of immobility believe they are pleasing God, as did those zealous Jews who caused Christ to be crucified. All the clericals, Your Holiness, all the religious men even, who to-day oppose progressive Catholicism, would, in all good faith, have caused Christ to be crucified in Moses' name. They are worshippers of the past; they wish everything to remain unalterable in the Church, even to the style of the pontifical language, even to the great fans of peacocks' feathers which offend Your Holiness' priestly heart, even to those senseless traditions which forbid a cardinal to go out on foot, and make it scandalous for him to visit the poor in their houses. It is the spirit of immobility which, by straining to preserve what it is impossible to preserve, exposes us to the derision of unbelievers; and this is a great sin in the eyes of God."

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, the ring of shadows was closing in, was growing deeper around and above the small circle of light in which the two figures were outlined, confronting each other: the white figure of the Pontiff in his chair, and Benedetto's dark figure standing erect.

"In opposition to this spirit of immobility," said Benedetto, "I entreat you not to allow Giovanni Selva's books to be placed on the Index."

Then, pushing the chair aside, he once more fell upon his knees, and stretching out his hands towards the Pontiff, spoke more eagerly, more excitedly.

"Vicar of Christ, I ask for something else. I am a sinner, unworthy to be compared to the saints, but the Spirit of God may speak even through the vilest mouth. As a woman once conjured the Pope to come to Rome, so I now conjure Your Holiness to come forth from the Vatican. Come forth, Holy Father; but the first time, at least the first time, come forth on an errand connected with your office. Lazarus suffers and dies day by day; go and visit Lazarus! Christ calls out for succour in all poor, suffering human beings. From the Gallery of Inscriptions I saw the lights shining before another palace here in Rome. If human suffering call out in the name of Christ, there they may perhaps answer: 'nay,' but they go. From the Vatican the answer to Christ is: 'yea,' but they do not go. What will Christ say at the terrible hour, Holy Father? These words of mine, could the world hear them, would bring vituperation upon me, from those who profess the greatest devotion to the Vatican; but though they hurl vituperation and thunderbolts against me, not until the hour of my death will I cease crying aloud: What will Christ say? What will Christ say? To Him I appeal!"

The lamp's tiny flame grew smaller and smaller; in the narrow circle of pale light upon which the shadows were creeping little of Benedetto was visible save his outstretched hands, little of the Pope was visible save his right hand grasping the silver bell. As soon as Benedetto ceased, the Holy Father ordered him to rise; then he rang the bell twice. The door of the Gallery was thrown open; the trusted valet entered who had already become popular in the Vatican, and was known as Don Teofilo.

"Teofilo," said the Pope, "is the light turned on once more in the Gallery?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"Then go into the library, where you will find Monsignore. Request him to come in here, and wait for me. And see that another lamp is brought."

When he had finished speaking, His Holiness rose. He moved towards the door of the Gallery, signing to Benedetto to follow him. Don Teofilo passed out by the opposite door. Sad omen! In the dark room, where so many flaming words, inspired by the Spirit, had flashed, only the little dying lamp remained.

That part of the Gallery of Inscriptions where the Pope and Benedetto now found themselves was in semi-darkness. But at one end a great lamp, with a reflector, shed its light upon the commemorative inscription on the right of the door leading to the Loggia of Giovanni da Udine. Between the long lines of inscriptions, which ran from one end of the gallery to the other, and watched this dark conflict of two living souls, like dumb witnesses well acquainted with the mysteries of that which is beyond the grave and of the last judgment, the Pope advanced slowly, silently, Benedetto following on his left, but a few paces behind him. He paused a moment near the torso representing the river Orontes, and gazed out of the window. Benedetto wondered if he were looking at the lights of the Quirinal, and his heart beat faster as he waited for a word. The word did not come. The Pope continued his slow, silent walk, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on his breast. He paused again near the end of the gallery, in the light of the great lamp, and seemed undecided whether to turn back or to proceed. On the left of the lamp the door of the gallery opened upon a background of night, of moonlight, columns, glass, and marble pavement. The Pope turned in this direction, and descended the five steps. The moonlight fell slanting upon the pavement, streaked with the black shadows of the columns, and upon the end of the Loggia, cut off by the oblique profile of the deeper shadow, within which the bust of Giovanni was barely distinguishable.

The Pope walked on till he reached this shadow and paused in it, while Benedetto, who had stopped several paces behind that he might not seem to press him irreverently in his anxiety for an answer, was gazing at the moon, sailing midst the great clouds above Rome. As he gazed thus at the orb he asked himself, asked some Invisible One who might be near him, asked even the grave, sad face of the moon herself, whether he had dared too much, dared in the wrong way. But he repented of this doubt immediately. Was it he himself who had spoken? No, the words had come unsought to his lips, the Spirit had spoken. He closed his eyes in an effort of silent prayer, his face still raised towards the moon, as a blind man lifts his sightless eyes towards the silver splendour he divines.

A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He started and opened his eyes. It was the Pope, and the expression of his face told him that at last words had matured in his mind which satisfied it. Benedetto bent his head respectfully, ready to listen.

"My son," His Holiness began, "many of these things the Lord had spoken of in my heart long ago. You—God bless you—have to deal with the Lord alone; I have to deal also with the men the Lord has placed around me, among whom I have to steer my course according to charity and prudence, and above all, I must adapt my counsels, my commands, to the different capacities, the different states of mind, of so many millions of men. I am like a poor schoolmaster who, out of seventy scholars, has twenty who are below the average, forty of ordinary ability, and only ten who are really brilliant. He cannot carry on the school for the benefit of the ten brilliant pupils alone, and I cannot govern the Church for you alone and for those who are like you. Consider this for instance. Christ paid tribute to the State, and I—not as the Pontiff, but as a citizen—would gladly pay my tribute of homage, there in that palace whose lights you saw shining, did I not fear by so doing to offend the sixty scholars, to lose even one of those souls which are as precious to me as the others. And it would be the same if I caused certain books to be removed from the Index, if I called to the Sacred College certain men who have the reputation of not being strictly orthodox, if, during an epidemic, I should go—ex abrupto—to visit the hospitals of Rome."

"Oh, Your Holiness!" Benedetto exclaimed, "forgive me, but it is not certain that those souls, so ready to be scandalised by the Vicar of Christ for such causes as these, will be saved at last, whereas it is certain that very many other souls would be secured which otherwise cannot be won over."

"And then," the Pope continued, as if he had not heard him, "I am old; I am weary; the cardinals do not know whom they have placed here. I did not wish it. I am ill also, and I know by certain signs that I must soon appear before my Judge. I feel, my son, that you are moved by the right spirit; but the Lord cannot exact of a poor old man like me the things you have spoken of, things which even a young and vigorous Pontiff could not accomplish! Still, there are some which even I, with His help, may be able to bring about; if not the great things, at least the lesser ones. Let us pray God to raise up at the right moment one capable of dealing with the weightier matters, and those who may be able to help him in the work. My son, if I were to begin to-night to transform and rebuild the Vatican, where should I find a Raphael to adorn it with his paintings? or even a Giovanni? Still, I do not say I can do nothing."

Benedetto was about to reply, but the Pontiff, perhaps not wishing to give any further explanations, afforded him neither time nor opportunity to do so, and at once asked him a very welcome question.

"You know Selva?" said he. "What manner of man is he in private life?"

"He is a just man!" Benedetto hastened to answer. "A most just man. His books have been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. They may, perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between the deep, burning piety of Selva's works and the cold and meagre formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!" The hour struck in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto's hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not utter.

He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again. At last he said, in a stifled voice:

"Pray for me, pray that the Lord may enlighten me!"

A tear trembled in each of the beautiful, gentle eyes of the old man, who had never wilfully soiled himself with an impure thought, who was full of the sweetness of charity. Benedetto was so deeply moved that he could not speak.

"Come again," the Pope said, "We must converse together again."

"When, Your Holiness?"

"Soon, I will summon you."

Meanwhile the advancing shadows had engulfed the white figure and the black one. His Holiness placed his hand on Benedetto's shoulder and asked him softly, almost hesitatingly:

"Do you remember the end of your vision?"

Benedetto, bowing his head, answered, also in a low tone:

"Nescio diem, neque horam."

"The words are not in the manuscript," His Holiness continued; "but do you remember?"

Benedetto murmured:

"In the Benedictine habit, on the bare earth, in the shade of a tree." "Should it happen thus," the Holy Father said gently, "I would wish to bless you in that moment. Then I shall be awaiting you in Heaven."

Benedetto knelt down. The Pope's voice sounded very solemn in the darkness:

"Benedico te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."

The Pontiff rapidly ascended the five steps, and disappeared.

Benedetto remained upon his knees, wrapt in that benediction which, it seemed to him, had come from Christ Himself. On hearing steps in the gallery he rose. A few moments later he was returning to the bronze portal, accompanied by Don Teofilo.



III. The room on the fourth floor was hardly decent. An iron bedstead, a pedestal, a writing-desk, with a few torn and dilapidated books, a deal chest of drawers, an iron washstand, and a few straw-bottomed chairs, were all it contained. A suit of grey clothes was hanging from one nail, a broad-brimmed black hat from another. Frequent flashes of lightning could be seen through the open window; breaths of the dark, stormy night blew in, causing the flame of the petroleum lamp on the pedestal to flare and the light and the shadows to tremble, as they fell upon the not too clean sheets, the two fleshless hands, the cluster of roses lying loose between them, on the flannel shirt of the sick man, who had pulled himself up into a sitting position, and on his deeply lined, thin face, greyish with a month-old beard. On the other side of the poor bed in the gloaming stood Benedetto. The sick man gazed at the flowers in silence. His hands and his lips trembled.

He had been a monk. At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married. A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist. The wife was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata, near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the bitterness of his soul.

A sob he could not check broke from his lips. He opened his arms, encircled Benedetto's neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace. Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.

"I am not worthy! I am not worthy!" said he.

But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man's neck, kissed him, and answered:

"Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!"

"What blessing?" the sufferer inquired.

"That you weep with me!"

Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him in astonishment as if asking the question: "You know all?" Benedetto silently and gently bowed his head in assent.

The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known. He had lived here three years. A neighbour, older than he, a poor little hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed. She had learned from the concierge that the man was an unfrocked monk, and seeing how sad, humble, and grateful he was, she prayed night and morning to the Madonna and to all the Saints of Paradise, that they might intercede with Jesus on his behalf, that this man might be pardoned and brought back into the fold of the Church. She told her hopes and her fears to other pious old women, saying:

"I myself do not dare to pray to Jesus for him; that unhappy man has committed too great a sin against Him. He needs the prayers of some powerful personage!"

That day the old man had said to her several times that he would be so happy if he could have a few roses. Then the little hunchback had thought:

"There is the holy man of whom every one is talking,—he works as a gardener. I will go to him and tell him the whole story. I will ask him to bring some roses, and who knows what may come of it!" Such were her thoughts, but at once she said to herself:

"If that thought did not come to me from the Madonna, it certainly came from St. Anthony!"

In her simple, pure heart she had felt a wave of sweetness and joy. Without losing any time she had started for Villa Mayda, the elegant Pompeian villa, standing out white on the Aventine, among the beautiful palms, almost opposite the window of the old unfrocked monk. Benedetto was about to go to bed, in obedience to the orders of the Professor, who had found him feverish. It was the low, insidious fever which, for several weeks, had been consuming his strength without otherwise causing any suffering. When he had heard what the cripple had to tell, he had come at once with the roses.

* * * * *

The old man still kept his face hidden, for he was ashamed. Presently, without looking at Benedetto, he spoke of the roses, and explained his longing for them. He was the son of a gardener and had himself intended to become a gardener; but he was also fond of going to church, and all his toys had been copies of sacred objects: little altars, candelabra, small busts of bishops wearing mitres. His employers—very religious people—had intimated to his parents that, if he showed a vocation for the ecclesiastical career, they would have him educated at their own expense. Thereupon his parents had promptly determined that he should adopt that career. He soon discovered that his strength was not sufficient to enable him to remain faithful to the priestly vows, but he lacked the courage to take a step which would have caused his family the greatest distress. Instead of that he imagined he might be safe if he withdrew completely from the world, and so, listening to imprudent counsellors, he entered the monastery from which he was to come forth again later in disgrace. In after years he would sometimes allude to his order, when jesting covertly with his friends, and say "When I was in the regiment!" but he did not repeat that now. As a boy he had loved flowers, but, after entering the seminary, he had thought no more about them—thought no more about them for forty years. The night before Benedetto's visit he had dreamed of the big rose garden in which his childhood had been spent. The white roses were all bending towards him, and gazing at him in the dream-world, as pious souls gaze with curiosity on a pilgrim in the world of shadows. They said to him: "Where are you going? where are you going, poor friend? Why do you not return to us?" On waking he had felt a longing for roses, a tender longing that moved him to tears. And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses! He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes shining with a painful question: "You know, you understand, what do you think of me? Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me?"

Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress him. The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone, sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain. Now the old man seemed comforted, now anxious questions broke from his lips; then, all of a sudden, the gentle stream of words restored the happy look to his face. Meanwhile, the little crippled woman came and went between her own room and her neighbour's door, clasping her rosary, and divided between her anxiety at that decisive moment to get in as many Ave Marias as possible, and the desire to hear if they were talking in there and what they were saying.

But down below, in the street, a crowd had begun to gather of people who, regardless of the bad weather, were anxious to see the Saint of Jenne. A woman who kept a little shop had seen him enter with his roses, accompanied by the little hunchback. In an instant about fifty persons were standing around the door, women for the most part, some wishing only to see him, others eager for a word from him. They waited patiently, speaking in low tones as if they had been in church; speaking of Benedetto, of the miracles he performed, of the blessings they were going to implore him to grant. A cyclist rode up, got off his machine, and, having inquired why these people were assembled there, made them tell him exactly where the Saint of Jenne was. Then he mounted his bicycle once more and started off at full speed. Shortly afterwards a close carriage—a so-called "botte"—followed by the same cyclist, stopped before the door. A gentleman got out, pushed his way through the crowd, and entered the house. The cyclist remained near the carriage. The gentleman exchanged a few words with the concierge, whom he desired to accompany him as far as the door, where the little hunchback stood, trembling, and clasping her rosary. He knocked, regardless of her silent gesticulations, as she implored the Madonna to send this intruder away. It was Benedetto who came to open the door.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger, politely, "are you Signor Maironi?"

"I no longer bear that name," Benedetto replied, quietly, "but I once bore it."

"I am sorry to trouble you. I should be greatly obliged if you would kindly come with me. I will tell you where presently."

The sick man heard the stranger's words, and groaned:

"No, holy man, for the love of God, do not go away!"

Benedetto replied:

"Please tell me your name, and why you wish me to go with you."

The other seemed embarrassed.

"Well," said he, "I am a delegato, an officer of the police." The invalid exclaimed "Gesummaria!" while the terrified hunchback dropped her rosary and stared at Benedetto, who had not been able to check a movement of surprise.

The police officer hastened to add, smiling, that his visit was not of a terrible nature, that he was not come to arrest any one, that he was not giving an order, but simply an invitation.

The invitations of the police being of a special nature, Benedetto did not think of refusing this one. He asked to be allowed to remain alone with the sick man and the woman for five minutes, whispered something to the man, who appeared to consent with tears in his voice, and then taking the little hunchback aside, he told her the invalid was now willing to see a priest, but that he could not tell when he himself would be free to bring one to him. The poor little creature was trembling from head to foot, partly with fear, partly with joy, and she could only repeat over and over again: "Blessed Jesus! Holy Virgin!" Benedetto sought to reassure her, promised to return as soon as possible, and, having said good-bye, went down-stairs with the delegato.

In the street the crowd had increased in size, and the people were pressing noisily and threateningly round the cyclist, who had remained near the carriage, and in whom they had recognised a policeman in plain clothes. He would not tell them why he had come first to gather information, and had then returned with the other individual. They tried to force the cabman to drive away, and even talked of unharnessing the horse. When the delegato appeared with Benedetto they surrounded him, crying: "Away with the ruffian!—Away with him!—Down with him!—Leave that man alone!—Look out for the thieves, per Dio! You take God's servants, and let the thieves run free!—Away with you!—Down with you!" Benedetto came forward, motioned to them with both hands to be quiet, and begged them over and over again to go away peacefully, for no one wished to hurt him; he had not been arrested, but was going with this gentleman of his own free-will. At the same moment thunder pealed in the sky, a heavy shower began to beat on the pavement. The crowd swayed, and rapidly dispersed. The delegato gave an order to the cyclist, and entered the carriage with Benedetto.

They started in the direction of the Tiber, in the midst of thunder, lightning, and heavy rain. Very quietly Benedetto asked the delegato what was wanted of him at the police station. He replied that it was not a question of the station. The person who wished to speak with Signor Maironi was a far more important functionary than the chief of police.

"Perhaps I should not have told you that," he added, "but at any rate he himself will tell you so."

Then he informed Benedetto that he had sought for him in vain at Villa Mayda, and said how vexed he would have been not to have found him soon. Benedetto ventured to inquire if he knew the reason of this call. In reality the delegate did not know, but he feigned a diplomatic silence, and drew back into his corner as if to avoid the gusts of rain. A street lamp showed Benedetto the yellow river, the great black barges of Ripagrande; another showed him the temple of Vesta. Beyond that he could no longer see where they were going; it seemed as if they were passing through an unknown necropolis, a maze of funereal streets, where sepulchral lamps were burning. At last the carriage rattled into a courtyard, and drew up at the foot of a broad and dark stairway, flanked with columns. Benedetto went up with the delegato as far as the second landing, on to which two doors opened. The one on the left was closed, the one on the right looked down on the stairs through a shining bull's-eye window. The delegato pushed it open, and he and Benedetto entered a stuffy den, evidently a sort of anteroom. An usher, who was dozing there, rose wearily. The delegato left Benedetto, and went into the next room. Then the usher bent down as if to pick up something, and said to Benedetto, offering him a letter:

"See! you have dropped this paper!"

Benedetto was astonished and the usher insisted:

"You have come from the Testaccio, have you not? Well, you will find that this belongs to you. Make haste."

Make haste? Benedetto stared at the man, who had resumed his seat. He stared back and confirmed his advice with a short nod which meant: You suspect there is a mystery here, and indeed there is!

Benedetto examined the envelope. It bore the following address:

"For the Under-Gardener at Villa Mayda." And below, in larger letters:

"IMMEDIATE."

It was in a woman's hand, but Benedetto did not recognize it. He opened the letter and read:

"This is to inform you that the Director-General of Police will do his best to induce you to leave Rome of your own free-will. Refuse. You can read what follows at your leisure."

Benedetto hurriedly replaced the letter, but as no one appeared, and everything around him seemed to be asleep, he took it out again and read on. It ran thus:

"Since your visits to the Vatican there has been much dissatisfaction with the Holy Father. Among other things, he has withdrawn the Selva affair from the Congregation of the Index. You can have no idea of the intrigues which are being set on foot against you, of the calumnies concerning you which are communicated even to your friends, and all with the object of compelling you to leave Rome and preventing you from seeing the Pontiff again. This conspiracy has obtained the support of the Government by means of a promise, in return, not to ratify the proposed nomination to the Archiepiscopal See of Turin of a person very obnoxious to the Quirinal. Do not yield. Do not abandon the Holy Father and your mission. The threat concerning the affair at Jenne is not serious; it would not be possible to proceed against you, and they know it. The person who may not write to you discovered all this, and has asked me to write this note; she will make sure that it reaches you.

"NOEMI D'ARXEL."

Involuntarily Benedetto looked towards the usher, as if he had suspected him of knowing the contents of this letter which had passed through his hands. But the usher was dozing again, and was only roused by the return of the delegato, who ordered him to conduct Benedetto to the Signor Commendatore. [Footnote: Commendatore: a title borne by those upon whom certain Italian orders have been conferred.—Translator's Note.]

Benedetto was introduced into a spacious apartment, all dark save in one corner, where a gentleman about fifty years of age sat reading the Tribuna by the light of an electric lamp, which shone upon his bald head, upon the newspaper, and upon the table, littered with documents. Above him, in the dim light, a large portrait of the King was dimly visible.

He did not at once raise his head—heavy with conscious power—from the newspaper. He raised it when he felt inclined to do so, and looked carelessly at this atom of the people who stood before him.

"Be seated," he said in a frigid tone.

Benedetto obeyed.

"You are Signor Maironi?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am sorry to have troubled you, but it was necessary."

There was harshness and sarcasm underlying the Signor Commendatore's courteous words.

"By the way," he said, "why are you not called by your real name?"

Benedetto did not answer this unexpected question at once.

"Well, well," his interlocutor continued. "It is not of much importance at present. We are not in a court of justice. I hold that if one is going to do good, it is best to do it in one's own name. But then I do not go to church, and my views differ from yours. However, as I said before, it is of no importance. Do you know who I am? Did the delegato tell you?"

"No, sir."

"Very well, then; I am a functionary of the State, who takes some interest in the public security, and who has a certain amount of power—yes, a certain amount of power. Now I am going to prove to you that I take an interest in you also. I regret to say, you are in a critical position, my dear Signor Maironi, or Signor Benedetto, at your choice. An accusation of a really serious nature has been lodged against you with the judicial authorities, and I see that not only your reputation for saintliness is in danger, but also your personal liberty, and hence your preaching, at least for several years."

A flame spread over Benedetto's face, and his eyes flashed.

"Leave the saintliness and the reputation alone," said he.

The august functionary of the State continued, unmoved:

"I have wounded you. But you must know that your reputation for saintliness is threatened by other dangers. Other things are said about you which have nothing to do with the penal code,—you may be quite easy on that score—but which are not in perfect harmony with Catholic morals. I assure you these things are believed by many. I am simply stating the facts; it is really no business of mine. After all, saintliness is never a reality; it is always more or less an idealisation of the image by the mirror. If there is saintliness anywhere, it is in the mirror, in the people who believe in the saints. I myself do not believe in them. But let us come to serious matters. I was obliged to say some unpleasant things to you, I even wounded you; now I will apply the remedy. I am not a believer, but, nevertheless, I appreciate the religious principle as an element of public order, and this is also the view taken by my superiors and the view taken by the Government itself. Therefore the Government cannot approve of proceedings of such a scandalous nature against one whom the people regard as a saint, proceedings which might possibly stir up disorder. But that is not all! We know that you stand in high favour with the Pope, who sees you often. Now the 'powers that be' have no desire to cause the Pope any personal annoyance. They have the good intention to spare him this unpleasantness if possible. And it will be possible on one condition. Here in Rome you have active enemies—not on our side, not on the Liberal side, you know!—who are scheming to ruin you completely, to rob you of your reputation and everything. If you wish to know my opinion exactly, I will tell you that I think, from a Catholic point of view, they are right. I modify somewhat, for my use and for theirs, the famous motto of the Jesuits, 'Aut sint ut sunt,' and I make it, 'Aut non erunt.' They tell me you are a Liberal Catholic. That simply means that you are not a Catholic. But let us proceed. Your enemies have denounced you to the Public Prosecutor, and it would be our duty to send the carabinieri to arrest Signor Pietro Maironi, condemned, in his absence, by the Assize Court at Brescia, for having failed to serve on a jury when summoned. But that is a slight matter. You imagine you healed some people at Jenne, and you are accused not only of practising medicine unlawfully, but even of having poisoned a patient—nothing less! Now we have the means of saving you. We will manage to hush up this accusation. But if you remain in Rome, your enemies here will make so much noise that it will be impossible for us to feign deafness. You must go away to some distant place, and go at once! It would be better to go out of Italy. Try France, where there is a famine of saintliness. Or, at least—do you not own a house on Lake Lugano? There are some sisters in it now, are there not? Sisters and saints go extremely well together. Join the sisters, and let this storm blow over."

The Commendatore spoke very slowly, very seriously, hiding his irony under an indifference which was even more insolent.

Benedetto rose, resolute and severe.

"I was with a sick man," he said, "who needed my illegal medicine. It would have been better to leave me at my post. You and the Government are my worst enemies if you offer me the means to fly from justice. Perform your duty by sending the carabinieri to arrest me for not serving on the jury. I will prove that it was impossible for me to have received the summons. Let the Public Prosecutor do his duty by proceeding against me on the strength of the affair at Jenne; you will always find me at Villa Mayda. Tell your superiors this: tell them that I shall not stir from Rome, that I fear only one Judge, and let them fear Him also in their false hearts, for He will be more terrible against falseness of heart than against honest violence!"

The Commendatore, who had not been prepared for this blow, grew livid with impotent rage, and was about to burst into a torrent of angry words when the dull rumble of a carriage was heard entering the courtyard. He looked away from Benedetto and listened. Benedetto grasped the back of his chair that he might not be tempted to turn his back on him. The other man roused himself; the angry light, which for a moment had died down, blazed forth again in his eyes. He threw aside the newspaper which he had held in his hand all the time, and bringing his fist down heavily upon the table, he exclaimed:

"What are you doing? Do not dare to move!"

The two men looked at each other fixedly for a few seconds in silence, one with a look of majestic authority, the other stern and forbidding. The official continued violently:

"Shall I have you arrested here?"

Benedetto was still looking at him in silence; at length he answered:

"I am waiting. Do as you please."

An usher, who had knocked several times in vain, now appeared on the threshold and bowed to the Commendatore without speaking. The Commendatore answered at once: "I am coming," and, rising hastily, left the room with a strange expression on his face, where anger was disappearing, and obsequiousness was dawning.

The usher returned immediately, and told Benedetto to wait.

A quarter of an hour passed. Benedetto, shivering, his heart in a tumult, his head on fire, excited and exhausted by fever, had once more sunk upon his chair, while the most disconnected thoughts whirled through his brain. May God forgive this man! Forgive them all! What joy if the Pontiff should forbid the condemnation of Selva! How does the person who may not write to me know? And now, why are they keeping me waiting? What more can they want with me? Oh! what if with this fever I should no longer be master of my thoughts or of my words? How terrible! My God, my God, do not permit that! But what horrible baseness there is in the world, what shameful, hidden fornication between these people of the Church and of the State, who hate each other, who despise each other! Why, why dost Thou permit it, Lord? Still no one comes! This fever! My God, my God! let me remain master of my thoughts, of my words. God of Truth! Thy servant is in the hands of his conspiring enemies: give him strength to glorify Thee, even in the burning fire! Those two persons are thinking of me now. I must not think of them! They are not sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which I shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I shall never see again! Still—God be praised!—I did not behold it in vain! What am I doing here? Why do I not go away? But could I go away? Oh! this fever!

He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which showed white in the darkness. It was five minutes to eleven. Outside, the thunder-storm still raged. The power of the maddened elements, the power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at its mercy. But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with thirst. If only he could open a window, hold out his mouth to the waters of heaven!

An electric bell sounded, and at last he hears steps in the anteroom. Here is the Commendatore, in his hat and overcoat. He closes the door behind him, gathers up the papers lying on the table, and says to Benedetto, with a disdainful air:

"Mark this. We give you three days in which to leave Rome. Do you understand?" Without even waiting for an answer, he pressed a bell. The usher entered, and he commanded:

"Show him out!"

* * * * *

On reaching the great stairway with his guide, Benedetto, believing himself free to descend, begged for a little water.

"Water?" the usher replied. "I cannot go for it now. His Excellency is waiting. Please step this way."

To Benedetto's' great astonishment, he invited him to enter the lift.

"Both their Excellencies," said the usher, correcting himself, and, as the lift ascended to the second floor, he looked at Benedetto as at one about to receive a great honour which he does not appear to deserve. When they reached the second floor, the two traversed an immense hall dimly lighted. From this hall Benedetto was shown into an apartment so brilliantly illumined as to cause him discomfort and suffering, and he was nearly blinded.

Two men, seated in the two corners of a large sofa, were waiting for him, each in a different attitude, the younger with his hands in his pockets, his legs crossed, and his head leaning against the back of the couch; the elder with his body bent forward, and continuously stroking his grey beard, first with one hand and then with the other. The first individual had a sarcastic expression, the second a searching, melancholy, kindly one. The latter, who evidently possessed the greater authority of the two, invited Benedetto to be seated in an easy-chair, opposite to him.

"You must not think, dear Signor Maironi," said he in a voice both harmonious and deep, and which seemed, in a way, to correspond with the melancholy look in his eyes, "you must not think that we are here as two powerful arms of the State. We are here, at the present moment, as two individuals of a very rare species, two statesmen who know their business well, and who despise it still more. We are two great idealists, who know how to lie in a most ideal manner to those who deserve nothing better, and who also know how to adore Truth; two democrats, but nevertheless two adorers of that recondite Truth which has never been touched by the dirty hands of old Demos."

Having spoken thus, the man of the flowing grey beard once more began to stroke it, first with one hand, then with the other, and, puckering his eyes, which sparkled with a shrewd smile, for he was pleased with his own words, watched for surprise on Benedetto's face.

"We are, moreover, believers also," he continued.

The other personage, without raising his head from the back of the couch, lifted his open hands, and said, almost solemnly:

"Steady!" "Let the word pass, my dear friend," the first speaker said, without looking towards him. "We are both believers, but in different ways. I believe in God with all my might, and my might is great, and I shall have Him with me always, You believe in God, with all your weaknesses, and they are few, and you will not have Him with you until you are upon your death-bed."

Another shrewd and self-complacent smile, another pause. The friend shook his head, raising his eyebrows as if he had heard a jest deserving only of commiseration, but not of an answer.

"I, for my part," the deep and harmonious voice went on, "am also a Christian. Not a Catholic, but a Christian. Indeed, because I am a Christian am an anti-Catholic. My heart is Christian, and my brain is Protestant. It is with joy that I see in Catholicism signs, not of decrepitude, but of putrefaction. Charity is being dissolved in the most sincerely Catholic hearts into a dark mud, full of the worms of hatred. I see Catholicism cracking in many places, and I see the ancient idolatry upon which it has raised itself bursting forth through the cracks. What few youthful, healthy, and vital energies appear within it, all tend to separate from it. I know that you are a radical Catholic, that you are the friend of a man who is really sound and strong, and who calls himself a Catholic, but who is pronounced a heretic by true Catholics; and a heretic he certainly is. I have been told you are a pupil of this noble heretic, who labours for reforms and who, at the same time, tries to influence the Pontiff. Now, I myself am looking for a great reformer, but he must be an antipope; not antipope in the narrow, historical sense, but an antipope in the Lutheran sense of the word. Curiosity pricks us to know in what way you believe it possible to rejuvenate this poor old Papacy, of which we laymen are ahead not only in the conquest of civilisation, but also in the science of God, even in the science of Christ, this Papacy which follows us at a great distance, panting and stopping by the way every now and then, hanging back like an animal which smells the shambles, and then, when it is pulled very hard, jumping forward, only to stop again until the rope is twitched once more. Explain your idea of Catholic reform to us. Let us hear it."

Benedetto remained silent.

"Speak," continued the unknown deity who appeared to reign in that place. "My friend is not Herod, nor am I Pilate. We might perhaps both become apostles of your idea."

His friend once more extended his wide-open hands, without raising his head from the sofa-back, and said again, with a stronger accent on the first syllable:

"Steady!"

Benedetto was silent.

"It appears to me, caro mio," said the friend, turning his head alone towards his colleague, "that this promises to be the first time your eloquence has failed you. Here the model of the nihil respondit is taken very seriously."

Benedetto shuddered, horrified at this allusion to the Divine Master, and the fear of seeming a presumptuous imitator. At that moment he ceased to feel his illness—the fever, the thirst, the heaviness of his head.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, "now I will answer! You say you are not Pilate. But the truth is that I am the least of Christ's servants, because I have been unfaithful to Him, and you repeat to me Pilate's very words:—Quid est veritas? Now you are not disposed to receive truth, as Pilate was not disposed to receive it."

"Oh!" his interlocutor exclaimed. "And why not?"

His friend laughed noisily.

"Because," Benedetto replied, "he who performs deeds of darkness is surrounded by darkness, and the light cannot reach him. You perform deeds of darkness. It is not difficult to understand; you are the Minister of the Interior—I know you by reputation. You were not born to perform deeds of darkness; there has been much light in some of your deeds, there is much light in your soul, much light of truth and of kindness; but at this moment you are performing a deed of darkness. I am here to-night because you have entered into a shameful bargain. You say you adore Truth, and you ask a brother if he possess Truth, while you hide the fact that you have already sold him!"

During Benedetto's speech, the Minister's friend—himself an Excellency, but of lower rank—had raised his head from the couch at last. He seemed to be only now beginning to consider the man and what he was saying worthy of attention. He also seemed amused at the lesson his chief had received. He admired his friend's great genius, but scoffed in his heart at his passing fits of idealism. The chief was at first amazed; then he started to his feet, shouting like a madman:

"You are a liar! You are insolent! You do not deserve my kindness! I have not sold you, you are not worth anything; I will give you away! Go! Go away!"

He looked for the button of the electric bell, and not finding it in the blindness of his rage, he shrieked:

"Usher! Usher!"

The Under-Secretary of State, who was used to these scenes—they were nothing worse than "fires of straw," for the Minister had a heart of gold—at first laughed in his sleeve. When, however, he heard his friend call the usher in that tone, knowing well the indiscretion of ushers and how much dangerous gossip might arise from this incident, reflecting ridicule also on himself, he resolutely restrained the Minister, almost commanding him to calm himself. Then he said sharply to Benedetto:

"Go, at once!" The Minister began to walk up and down the room in silence, his head bowed, with short, hurried steps, struggling to conquer the child in him, which would have liked to stamp its feet.

Benedetto did not obey. Erect and severe, glowing with the invisible rays of a dominating spirit, which kept the Under-Secretary of State at a distance, he forced the other, through this magnetic power, to turn towards him, to stop and to look him in the face.

"Signor Ministro," he said. "I am about to leave not only this palace, but very soon, I believe, this world also. I shall not see you again; listen to me for the last time. You are not now disposed to receive the Truth; nevertheless, the Truth is at your door, and the hour will come—it is not far distant, for your life is on the wane—when night will fall upon you, upon all your power, all your honours, all your ambitions. Then you will hear Truth calling out in the night. You can answer 'Begone'—and you will never meet her again. You can answer 'Enter'—and you will see her appear, veiled, and breathing sweetness through her veil. You do not now know what you will answer, nor do I know, nor does any one in the world. Prepare yourself, by good works, to give the right answer. Whatever your errors may be there is religion in your soul. God has given you much power in this world; use it to good purpose. You who were born a Catholic say you are a Protestant. Perhaps you do not know Catholicism well enough to understand that Protestantism is being shattered upon the dead Christ, while Catholicism evolves by virtue of the living Christ. But now I speak to the statesman, not, indeed, to implore him to protect the Catholic Church, which would be a misfortune, but to tell him that though the State may not be either Catholic or Protestant, neither may it ignore God, and you dare to ignore Him in more than one of your schools, in those you call high, and this in the name of freedom of science, which you confound with freedom of thought and of speech; for thought and speech are free to deny God, but the negation of God neither partakes nor can partake of the nature of science, and you are bound to teach science alone. You are well acquainted with that petty statesmanship which forces you to a private compromise with your conscience, in order to obtain in secret some favour from the Vatican, in which you do not believe, but you are ill acquainted with that grand statesmanship which upholds the authority of Him who is the eternal principle of all justice. You work harder to destroy it than the atheistic professors themselves; for, after all, the atheistic professors have but little power; you statesmen, who sometimes talk of your belief in God, you undermine His authority far more deeply than those professors, by the bad example of your practical atheism. You who imagine you believe in the Godhead of Christ are, in reality, prophets and priests of the false gods. You serve them, as the idolatrous Hebrew princes served them, in high places, in the presence of the people. You serve, in the high places, the gods of all earthly lusts."

"Bravo!" interrupted the Minister, who was well known for the austerity of his life, his domestic virtues, and his carelessness concerning money. "You amuse me!"

And he added, turning to his friend:

"It was really not worth while."

"Understand me well!" Benedetto continued. "Yes, you also are one of these priests. Do I then speak of ordinary revellers? I speak of you and of others like you, who esteem yourselves honest men because you do not plunge your hands into the coffers of the State, who esteem yourselves moral men because you do not give yourselves up to the pleasures of the senses. I will tell you two things: All the while you are worshipping pleasures which are still more sinful. You make false gods of yourselves unto yourselves; you worship the pleasure of contemplating yourselves in all your power, in all your honours, in the admiration of the world. To your false gods you wickedly sacrifice many human victims, and the integrity of your own character. There is a compact among you by which each is bound to respect his colleague's false god, and promote its worship. The purest among you are at least guilty of this complicity. You look away when there is a suggestion of foul conspiracies with vile aims, or of the shameful intrigues of factions which crawl in the dark, letting them go by in silence. You regard yourselves as incorrupt, and you corrupt others! You distribute the public money regularly to people who sell you their honour and the probity of their consciences. You despise and you nurture this infamy, which goes on under the shadow of your authority. It is more sinful to buy votes and flattery than to sell them! You are the most corrupt of all! Your second sin is that you consider lying a necessity of your position; you lie as you would drink water. You lie to the people, lie to the Parliament, lie to the Crown, lie to your adversaries, lie to your friends. I know—some of you do not personally indulge in the general prevarication, but you tolerate it in your colleagues. Many of you shrink from assuming this on entering the seat of government, as, upon entering a mine, we put on a dirty dress to protect our own and, on coming out, lay it down joyfully. But can these, who are the best, call themselves faithful servants of Truth? You believe in God, and perhaps on your death-bed you will believe you have offended God most seriously, as statesmen, by your acts of violence against the Church, in the name of the State. No, these will not be your greatest sins. If men go into Parliament, and through Parliament into the Government, who profess, as philosophers, not to know God, but who rise up in the name of Truth against this arbitrary tyranny of Untruth, they are serving God better than you and will be more pleasing to God than you, who believe in Him as an idol and not as the Spirit of Truth, than you who dare to talk of the putrefaction of Catholicism, you who stink of falsity. Yes, who stink of it! You make the air of the heights so impure, so contrary to what it should be, that it is difficult to breathe it. You have a devout heart, Signor Ministro; do not tell me that in this palace one cannot serve God."

"Do you know—" the Minister exclaimed angrily, crossing his arms upon his breast, while the Under-Secretary of State extended his hand graciously towards him to check the indignant words.

"Gently, gently, gently!" said he. "Allow me. I find this most entertaining."

The Under-Secretary of State was short and round, and full of respect for his own secretaryship, like an egg in the conscious possession of a sacred chick. As a man he was far inferior to the Minister, and very unlike him. He had none of the intellectual curiosity of his superior, and had consented to be present at this interview simply to please him. His superior, possessed of a keen wit, was in the habit of throwing his own light now on one, now on another of the persons who revolved around him, and, at such moments, lie was apt to believe that they shone of themselves, as perhaps the sun may believe is the case with the orbs that pay their court to it. The Under-Secretary of State reflected light upon the Minister, and the Minister reflected admiration upon the Under-Secretary of State. The Minister had desired his presence at this interview, not comprehending that this little Mercury of his planetary system, having resolved in his youth to free himself from the supernatural, which hampered the most spontaneous movements of his selfish nature, had come to hate the supernatural with much the same hatred which the sick conceive for the man who, they know, has gloomily diagnosed their illness. As these unfortunates seek to persuade themselves that the prophet is not worthy of faith, and, whilst his prophecy is gradually being fulfilled, become more and more impatient, and struggle ever harder to overthrow that threatening authority, so this man, the more he felt his youthful vigour declining, felt materialistic dogmas losing credit, and from time to time perceived in his heart certain stabbing apprehensions of a formidable truth which, wakened by degrees, became the more embittered in his hatred hidden beneath careless irony.

"Look here, my good sir," said he, when he had, by his words and gesture, made room for himself in the conversation. "You talk a great deal about false and true gods. I don't know whether yours be false or true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A God who made the world as he chose, in such a way that it must wag as it does, and then comes and tells us that we must make it wag in a different way—well now, you know! He is certainly not a reasonable God! You have taken the liberty to empty out a whole bagful of abuse, a bagful of accusations against statesmen; they are calumnies, especially if you apply them to that gentleman over there, or to me; but I am willing to admit that politics are not a suitable business for saints. He who made the world did not intend that they should be! He is to blame for that. Nevertheless, some one must attend to politics. At present we are doing this, and if we ourselves be not saints, at least you see how patiently we deal with saints. And listen,"

The Under-Secretary looked at his watch.

"It is getting late," he said, "and saintliness may encounter some dangers, at such a late hour, in the streets of Rome. You had better go, now."

He stretched out his hand towards the electric bell, meaning to summon the usher.

"Signor Ministro!" Benedetto exclaimed, with such vehemence that the Under-Secretary remained motionless, his arm extended, as though frozen in the act. "You fear for the State, for the Monarchy, for liberty, you fear the socialists and the anarchists, but you should be far more afraid of your colleagues, who scoff at God! for socialism and anarchism are merely fevers, while scoffing is even as gangrene! As for you," he added, turning to the Under-Secretary, "you deride One who is silent. Fear His silence!"