The Saint Part 10

"Well, the grandmother would not hear of this ill-a.s.sorted marriage. The young couple therefore were guests in the house of the bride's uncle, she being also an orphan. He, Don Franco, enlisted in 1859, and died of the wounds he received. His wife died soon after. The little boy was cared for by the grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, and, after her death, by certain Venetian relations of hers, of the name of Scremin. The grandmother left him very wealthy. He married a daughter of these Scremins,' who, unfortunately, went mad soon after her marriage, I believe. Piero felt this affliction keenly, and led a life of retirement until he had the misfortune to come in contact with a woman separated from her husband. Then a period of transgression set in; he transgressed morally and in matters of faith. At last (it seems like a miracle performed by the Lord Himself) the wife in her dying moments recovered her reason, summoned her husband, spoke with him, and then died the death of a saint. This death turned Piero's heart towards G.o.d; he left the woman, renounced his rights, left everything, and fled from his home in the night, telling no one whither he was going. Having met me once at Brescia, where I had gone to visit my sick father, and knowing I was at Subiaco, he came here. He was, moreover, fond of our Order, and cherished certain memories connected with our poor Praglia. He told me his story, entreating me to help him lead a life of expiation. I supposed he aspired to enter the Order. But he told me that, on the contrary, he did not feel himself worthy; that he had not as yet been able to ascertain the Divine Will on this point; that he wished, in the meantime, to do penance, to labour with his hands, to earn his bread--only a crust of bread. He told me other things; he spoke of certain incidents of a supernatural character which had happened to him.

I at once told the late Father Abbot about him, and we decided to lodge him in the _Ospizio_, to let him work within the inclosure, helping the kitchen-gardener, and to provide him with the frugal fare he craved. In three years he has never once tasted coffee, wine, milk, or eggs. He has touched nothing save bread, _polenta_, fruit, herbs, oil, and pure water, He has led the life of a saint, all can a.s.sure you of that. Still he believes himself the greatest sinner on earth!"

"Hm!" the Abott e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed thoughtfully, "Hm! I see! But why does he not join the Order? Then, another thing: I know he has pa.s.sed several nights outside the inclosure."

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

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

Ad ogni ver che ha faccia di menzogna Dee l'uom chiuder la bocca quant'ei puote, Per che senza colpa fa vergogna."

[Footnote:Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood A man should close his lips as far as may be, Because without his fault it causes shame.

--Longfellow's _Translation of the "Inferno."_]

"Oh!" Don Clemente exclaimed, blus.h.i.+ng, in his modest dignity, for those who were capable of harbouring vile suspicions.

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

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

"Hm! Hm!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Abbot, with a complicated play of wrinkled forehead, eyebrows, and lips, as if he were swallowing a mouthful of vinegar.

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

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

"Here," he exclaimed at last, "you are going back to the days of St.

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

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

Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other pa.s.sage leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the antic.i.p.ation of the resolutions he might form, after communing with his G.o.d; the covert hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot's frowns and doubts; the fear that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart.

Benedetto's mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating with Signor Giovanni, a new lucidity of thought which flashed from him in conversation, the growing strength of their mutual affection, had awakened in him hopes of a revelation of Divine Grace, of Divine Truth, of Divine Power for the saving of souls, to be made, at no distant period, through this outcast of the world. They had said at the meeting at Signor Selva's house, "A saint is needed." The first to affirm this had been the Swiss Abbe. Others had said that the saint should be a layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto's repugnance to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the convent. But what was happening out on the hills? What words was G.o.d uttering in his heart? And if--

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

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

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

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

Ah! was he not already almost on the verge of committing mortal sin?

Had he not been about to judge the ways of G.o.d, he presumptuous dust?

Prostrate upon the kneeling-stool, he sought to merge himself in the Almighty, praying silently for forgiveness, for a revelation to Benedetto of the Divine Will, and ready to wors.h.i.+p it, whatever it might be, from this time forth. As he rose, with a natural ebbing of the mystic wave from his heart, his eyes still turned towards the altar, but no longer fixed upon the tabernacle, he could not refrain from thinking of Jeanne Dessalle and of what Benedetto had said. The very indifferent picture above the altar represented the martyr Anatolia offering, from Paradise, the symbolical palms to Audax, the young pagan who had attempted to seduce her, but whom, instead, she had led to Christ.

Jeanne Dessalle had seduced Benedetto; of this Don Clemente had no doubts, notwithstanding Benedetto's attempt to exonerate her and accuse himself. What if she should now be converted through him? Was it perhaps right that he should try? Was Benedetto's impulse really more Christian than his own fears and the Abbot's scruples? As he crossed the church with bowed head, Don Clemente's mind was struggling with these questions. Anatolia and Audax! He remembered that a sceptical foreigner, upon hearing the explanation of the picture from him, had said: "Yes, but what if neither of them had been put to death? And what if Audax had been a married man?"

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

Instead of going towards his cell he turned into the second cloister to look at the ridge of the Colle Lungo, where, perhaps, Benedetto was praying. Some stars were s.h.i.+ning above the rocky, grey ridge, spotted with black, and their dim light revealed the square of the cloister, the scattered shrubs, the mighty tower of Abate Umberto, the arcades, the old walls, which had stood for nine centuries, and the double row of little stone friars ascending in procession upon the arch of the great gate where Don Clemente stood, lost in contemplation. The cloister and the tower stood out majestic and strong against the darkness. Was it indeed true that they were dying? In the starlight the monastery appeared more alive than in the sunlight, aggrandised by its mystic religious communing with the stars. It was alive, it was big with many different spiritual currents, all confused in one single being, like the different wrought and sculptured stones, which, united, formed its body; like different thoughts and sentiments in a human conscience.

The ancient stones, inclosing souls which love had mingled with them, saturated with holy longings and holy sorrows, with groans and prayers, radiated a dim something which penetrated the subconsciousness. They had the power of infusing strength into those of G.o.d's labourers who, in arid moments, withdrew from the world, seeking brief repose among them, as a spring of water infuses strength into the reaper on the lonely hills. But in order that the life of the stones might continue, a ceaseless living stream must flow through them, a stream of adoring and contemplating spirits. Don Clemente felt something akin to remorse for the thoughts he had harboured in the church about the decrepitude of the monastery; thoughts which had sprung from his own personal judgment, pleasing to his self-esteem, and therefore tainted by that arrogance of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning the young man's future. He praised G.o.d should He choose to let him remain a layman; he praised G.o.d should He choose to make him a monk, should He reveal His will, or should it remain hidden. "_Si vis me esse in luce sis benedictus, si vis me esse in tenebris sis iterum benedictus._" And then he sought his cell.

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

His cell was the last one on the right, near the balcony which overlooks Subiaco, the Sabine Hills, and the sh.e.l.l-shaped tract watered by the Anio. Before entering his cell Don Clemente stopped to look at the distant lights of Subiaco; he thought of the little red villa, nearer but not discernible; he thought of the woman. Intrigues, the Abbot had said. Did she still love Piero Maironi? Had she discovered, did she know that he had sought refuge at Santa Scolastica? Had she recognised him?

If so, what did she propose to do? Probably she was not staying in the Selvas' very small lodging, but was at some hotel in Subiaco. Were those distant lights fires in an enemy's camp? He made the sign of the cross, and entered his narrow cell, for a short rest until two o'clock, the hour of a.s.sembly in the choir.

Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. Beyond the further corner of the monastery he crossed the dry bed of a small torrent, reached the very ancient oratory of Santa Crocella on the right, and climbed the rocky slope which tumbles its stones down towards the rumbling Anio and faces the hornbeams of the Francolano, rising, straight and black, to the star-crowned cross on its summit. Before reaching the arch which stands at the entrance to the grove of the Sacro Speco, he left the road, and climbed up towards the left, in search of the scene of his last vigil, high above the square roofs and the squat tower of Santa Scolastica. The search for the stone where he had knelt in prayer on another night of sorrow distracted his thoughts from the mystic fire which had enveloped him, and cooled its ardour. He soon perceived this and was seized with a heavy sense of regret, with impatience to rekindle the flame, enhanced by the fear of not succeeding in the attempt, by the feeling that it had been his own fault, and by the memory of other barren moments. He was growing colder, ever colder. He fell upon his knees, calling upon G.o.d in an outburst of prayer. Like a small flame applied in vain to a bundle of green sticks, this effort of his will gradually weakened without having moved the sluggish heart, and left him at last in vague contemplation of the even roar of the Anio. His senses returned to him with a rush of terror! Perhaps the whole night would pa.s.s thus; perhaps this barren coldness would be followed by burning temptation! He silenced the clamour of his fervid imagination, and concentrated his thoughts on his determination not to lose courage. He now became firmly convinced that hostile spirits had seized upon him. He would not have felt more sure of this had he seen fiendish eyes flas.h.i.+ng in the crevices of the neighbouring rocks. He felt conscious of poisonous vapours within him; he felt the absence of all love, the absence of all sorrow; he felt weariness, a great weight, the advance of a mortal drowsiness. Once more he fell into stupid contemplation of the noise of the river, and fixed his unseeing eyes upon the dark woods of the Francolano. Before his mental vision pa.s.sed slowly, automatically, the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of harlots. He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the ground. Again he was the slow automaton. With a painful effort he rose to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft, sweet-smelling gra.s.s, pus.h.i.+ng up between the stones. He closed his eyes in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour, of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black, plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. His heart beat fast, fast, ever faster; a thread, only a thread of will-power held him back on the downward slope leading him to answer the invitation of that face. With wide eyes, his arms extended, his hands spread open, he uttered a long groan. Then, suddenly fearing some nocturnal wayfarer might have heard him, he held his breath, listening. Silence: silence in all things save the river. His heart was growing more calm. "My G.o.d! my G.o.d!" he murmured, horrified at the he had been in, at the abyss he had crossed. He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred, cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below with its squat, friendly tower, which he loved. In spirit he pa.s.sed through the shadows and the roofs; he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle, of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily. With an effort he pictured to himself the cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks'

couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master. He continued in this effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his thoughts on the prayer from the _Imitation: "Domine, dummodo voluntas mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi placuerit."_ He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him.

His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams, the faint scent of the gra.s.s which still clung to his clasped hands upon the gra.s.s, before Jeanne's sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously he unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery.

No, no, G.o.d would not allow him to be conquered! G.o.d had chosen him to do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master's counsels, he had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica; images of the vision, a written description of which he had confided to Don Giuseppe Flores.

He saw himself in Rome at night, on his knees in Piazza San Pietro, between the obelisk and the front of the immense temple, illumined by the moon. The square was deserted; the noise of the Anio seemed to him the noise of the fountains. A group of men clad in red, in violet and in black, issued forth from the door of the temple and stopped on the steps. They fixed their gaze upon him, pointing with their forefingers towards Castel Sant' Angelo, as if commanding him to leave the sacred spot. But now it was no longer the vision, this was a new imagining.

He was standing, straight and bold, before the hostile band. Suddenly behind him he heard the rumbling of hastening mult.i.tudes pouring into the square in streams from all the adjacent streets. A human wave swept him along, and, proclaiming him the reformer of the Church, the true Vicar of Christ, set him upon the threshold of the temple. Here he faced about, as if ready to affirm his world-wide authority. At that moment there flashed across his mind the thought of Satan offering the kingdoms of the world to Christ. He fell upon the ground, stretching himself face downward on the rock, groaning in spirit: "Jesus, Jesus, I am not worthy, not worthy to be tempted as Thou wast!" And he pressed his tightly closed lips to the stone, seeking G.o.d in the dumb creature. G.o.d!

G.o.d! the desire, the life, the ardent peace of the soul! A breath of wind blew over him, and moved the gra.s.s about him.

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

The wind was silent.

Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head, and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not.

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

Benedetto rose, his head heavy with leaden weariness. The sky was hidden by thick clouds as far as the hills of Jenne, where the valley of the upper Anio turns. Benedetto could hardly distinguish the black shadow of the Francolano opposite, or the livid, rocky slope at his feet. He started down, but stopped after a few steps. His legs would not support him, a rush of blood set his face aflame. He had scarcely broken his fast for thirty hours, having eaten only a crust of bread at noon. He felt millions of pins p.r.i.c.king him, felt the violent beating of his heart, felt his mind becoming clouded. What was that tangle of serpents winding themselves about his feet, in the disguise of innocent gra.s.ses?

And what sinister demon was that, waiting for him down there, crouching on all fours on a rock, disguised as a bush and ready to jump upon him?

Were not the demons waiting for him at the monastery also? Did they not nest in the openings of the great tower? Was there not a black flame flas.h.i.+ng in those openings? No, no, not now; now they were staring at him like half-closed and mocking eyes. Was this the rumbling of the Anio? No, rather the roaring of the triumphant abyss. He did not entirely credit all he saw and heard, but he trembled, trembled like a reed in the wind, and the millions of pins were moving over his whole body. He tried to free his feet from the tangle of serpents, and did not succeed. From terror he pa.s.sed to anger: "I _must_ be able to do it!"

he exclaimed aloud. From the gloomy gorge of Jenne, the dull rumble of thunder answered him. He glanced in that direction. A flash of lightning rent the clouds and disappeared above the blackness of Monte Preclaro.

Benedetto tried again to free his feet from the serpents, and again the leonine voice of the thunder threatened him.

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

Then, like the lightning flas.h.i.+ng round him, came a flash within him:

"I am tempting G.o.d!"

The serpents pressed him tighter; the demon crept towards him on all fours, up the rocky slope, all h.e.l.lishly alive with fierce spirits; the black flames burst forth in the openings of the great tower, the abyss the while howling, triumphant! Then the sovereign roar of the thunder rumbled through the clouds: "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy G.o.d!"

Benedetto raised his face and his clasped hands towards heaven, wors.h.i.+pping as best he might with the last glimmer of clouded consciousness. He swayed, spread wide his arms, clutching the air.

Slowly he bent backwards, fell prostrate upon his back on the hillside, and then lay motionless.

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

He longed for a little food, but dared not ask it of G.o.d, for it would be like asking for a miracle. He was prepared to wait for the dawn. The air was warm, the ground hardly damp; a few great drops fell, here and there, from the leaves of the evergreen oaks. Benedetto sank into a sleep so light that it hardly made him unconscious of his sensations, which it transformed into a dream. He fancied he was in a safe refuge of prayer and peace, in the shadow of holy arms extended above his head; and it seemed to him he must leave this refuge for reasons of which the necessity was evident to him, although he was unaware of their nature.

He could go by a door opening on to the road which leads down to the world, or he could go by the opposite door, taking a path which rose towards sacred solitudes. He hesitated, undecided. The falling of a great drop near him made him open his eyes. After the first moment of numbness he recognised the arch on the right, where the road begins which leads down to Santa Scolastica, to Subiaco, to Rome; and on the left the path which rises toward the Sacro Speco. He noticed with astonishment that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn?

Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at Santa Scolastica--one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it would be lighter still--for it no longer rained-were the sky not one heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.

It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour.

Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.

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