of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and
abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the
hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of
silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning
the young man's future. He praised God should He choose to let him
remain a layman; he praised God should He choose to make him a monk,
should He reveal His will, or should it remain hidden. "_Si vis me
esse in luce sis benedictus, si vis me esse in tenebris sis iterum
benedictus._" And then he sought his cell.

As he passed the Abbot's door in the broad corridor where the two dim
lamps were still burning, he thought of the talk he had had with the old
man, of those maxims of his concerning the ills affecting the Church,
and the wisdom of struggling against them. He remembered something
Signor Giovanni had said about the words "_Fiat voluntas tua_," which
the majority of the faithful understand only as an act of resignation,
and which really point out the duty of working with all our strength for
the triumph of Divine Law in the field of human liberty. Signor Giovanni
had made his heart beat faster, and the Abbot had made it beat more
slowly: which had spoken the word of life and of truth?

His cell was the last one on the right, near the balcony which overlooks
Subiaco, the Sabine Hills, and the shell-shaped tract watered by the
Anio. Before entering his cell Don Clemente stopped to look at the
distant lights of Subiaco; he thought of the little red villa, nearer
but not discernible; he thought of the woman. Intrigues, the Abbot had
said. Did she still love Piero Maironi? Had she discovered, did she know
that he had sought refuge at Santa Scolastica? Had she recognised him?
If so, what did she propose to do? Probably she was not staying in the
Selvas' very small lodging, but was at some hotel in Subiaco. Were those