"No, my son," the Abbot answered. "It is not for me to reflect upon the
ills of the Church, or upon possible remedies. Or rather, I may reflect
upon these matters, but I must speak of them only to God, that He
Himself may then speak of them to the proper persons. And do you do
the same. Bear this in mind, my son! The ills exist, and perhaps the
remedies also exist, but--who knows?--these remedies may be poisons,
and we must let the Great Healer apply them. We, for our part, must
pray. If we did not believe in the communion of saints, what would,
there be to do in the monasteries? So for the sake of our peace of mind,
my son, do not return to that house. Do not again ask permission to go
there."

The Abbot had ended in a paternal tone, and now laid an affectionate
hand upon his monk's shoulder. Don Clemente was much grieved at the
thought of not seeing his good friends again, and especially not to
be able to confer with Signer Giovanni the next day, to warn him of
Benedetto's danger, and to consult with him concerning a means of
defence.

"They are Christians of gold," he said sadly, and in submissive tones.

"I believe you," replied the Abbot. "They are probably far better than
the zealots who write these letters. You see I speak my mind. You come
from Brescia, eh? Well, I come from Bergamo. In either place they would
be called _piaghe_--festers! They are indeed festers of the Church. I
shall answer in a fitting tone. My monks take no part in meetings of
heretics. But, nevertheless, you will not revisit the Selvas."

Don Clemente kissed the hand of the fatherly old man resignedly.