abominable. She hates us. She has sworn an oath against us. She is
malignant."

It was not long before Anna issued forth and rode down to the vale. The
priest beckoned to Vittoria from the gates. He really supposed her to
have come to him with a burdened spirit.

"My daughter," he addressed her. The chapter on human error was opened:"
We are all of one family--all of us erring children--all of us bound to
abnegate hatred: by love alone are we saved. Behold the Image of Love--
the Virgin and Child. Alas! and has it been visible to man these more
than eighteen hundred years, and humankind are still blind to it? Are
their ways the ways of comfort and blessedness? Their ways are the ways
of blood; paths to eternal misery among howling fiends. Why have they
not chosen the sweet ways of peace, which are strewn with flowers, which
flow with milk?"--The priest spread his hand open for Vittoria's, which
she gave to his keeping, and he enclosed it softly, smoothing it with his
palms, and retaining it as a worldly oyster between spiritual shells.
"Why, my daughter, why, but because we do not bow to that Image daily,
nightly, hourly, momently! We do not worship it that its seed may be
sown in us. We do not cling to it, that in return it may cling to us."

He spoke with that sensuous resource of rich feeling which the
contemplation of the Image does inspire. And Vittoria was not led
reluctantly into the oratory of the castle to pray with him; but she
refused to confess. Thereupon followed a soft discussion that was as
near being acerb as nails are near velvet paws.

Vittoria perceived his drift, and also the dear good heart of the old
man, who meant no harm to her, and believed that he was making use of his