had followed on the way home, of his determination to send Benedetto to
Jenne, and to oblige him to remain there until the woman had gone. The
Father Superior kept up a continuous, low grumbling, and heard him with
knitted brows.

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

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

Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the
corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to
the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent
pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other passage
leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple
wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the anticipation of the
resolutions he might form, after communing with his God; the covert
hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot's frowns and doubts; the fear
that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent
and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart.
Benedetto's mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his
progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating