"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count--"a real hermit, not
one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a
genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety."

When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred
gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks
flushed.

"Yes, I addressed the hermit," he continued, and he raised his fine
head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before
him. "I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity.
'My father,' I said to him, 'bless me'--"

"Not only so," interrupted Baldassare, "but, would you believe it,
madame, the count cast himself down on the dusty street to receive his
blessing!"

"And why not?" asked the count, looking at him severely. "It came to
me like a voice from heaven. The hermit is a holy man. Would I were
like him! I have heard of him for thirty years past. Winter after
winter, among those savage mountains, in roaring winds, in sweeping
storms, in frost and snow, and water-floods, he has assisted hundreds,
who, but for him, must infallibly have perished. What courage! what
devotion! It is a poem." Marescotti spoke hurriedly and in a low
voice. "Yes, I craved his blessing. I kissed his hands, his feet.
I would have kissed the ground on which he stood." As he proceeded,
Marescotti grew more and more abstracted. All that he described was
passing like a vision before him. "Those venerable hands--yes, I
kissed them."