The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro (page 3)

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

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

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

“I thought you must have.”

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

“At any rate, I am still beautiful!”

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

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

Jeanne interrupted her, horrified.

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

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

* * * * *

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

“Well?” he said. “Did the Lord speak to you?”

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

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

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

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

“At once?” he inquired.

“At once.”

“May I first go and wash in the torrent?”

The master smiled:

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

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

“_Seccatore_! Some bore!”

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

“Who are you?” he demanded roughly.

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

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

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

“I work in the kitchen garden,” Benedetto replied.

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

“I was coming to see you, Padre.”

“Who told you to come to me?”

“Don Clemente.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, my friend!”

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

“That is not true!”

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

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

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

“Neither in it nor out of it!”

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

“I do not understand you,” he said.

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

Benedetto’s ivory face flushed slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not believe you!”

Benedetto did not flinch.

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

“I can imagine why,” Benedetto answered, dropping his eyes. “_Peccatum meum contra me est semper_.”

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

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

“Wait,” said he.

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

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

Benedetto answered softly:

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

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

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

“No, no, go away, go away!”

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

“You are glad?” said Benedetto, almost plaintively,

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

The low voice:

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

The firm voice

“Yes.”

The low voice:

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

The firm voice:

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?”

“Yes, _caro_, yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am coming!”

III

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

“Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva’s house,” said Noemi.

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

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

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

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

“The Veneto?” Noemi seemed surprised.

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

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

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

She turned to Jeanne.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery.”

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

“Do you know who we are?” Noemi continued.

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

“Oh! you heard of us from my sister?”

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

“Then you are not Signora Dessalle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He has a most beautiful soul,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“And this garden? In which direction is it?”

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

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

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

“Benedetto is not here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Whom do you mean by _he_?”

“Benedetto.”

“Who was Benedetto?”

“The monk.”

“You are mad! You idiot!” the two men exclaimed together.

Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.

“Think well,” she said. “Tell the truth!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There he is now!” the old man exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon me!” she said. “Who is that father?”

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

The monk answered:

“He is not a father, signora.”

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

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

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

“Who?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SILENTIUM.

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

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

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

His voice murmured in a scarcely audible tone:

“Still without faith?”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“Yes, if I be not forced to lie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know that Don Giuseppe Flores is dead?”

Silence.

Jeanne turned her head. The church was empty.

CHAPTER V

THE SAINT

I

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

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

“Maria.”

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

“Dearest!” he said.

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

“Blessed are they who suffer for Truth’s sake.”

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

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

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

He took her hand and kissed it reverently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Call her,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“With all my heart,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To-morrow we shall know,” Giovanni answered, rising.

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You call him ‘the Saint’ also?” said Maria.

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

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

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

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

The doctor continued to laugh while she was speaking.

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

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

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

They started up the hill together, talking of Benedetto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis_.”

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

“_Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis_.”

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

“_Mater Christi_.” The kneeling women answered with bowed heads:

“_Ora pro nobis_.”

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

“He does not wish it, he does not wish it!”

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

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

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

“_So mali passi, vigoli cattivi_! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]” said a smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.

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

“Take the poor creatures inside.”

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

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

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

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

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

“_Padre mio!_”

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

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

Then Don Clemente raised his hand and said:

“Listen!”

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

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

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

“There is another to be healed, another to be healed!” ten, twenty