grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his
soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his
movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he
clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his
thoughts on the prayer from the _Imitation: "Domine, dummodo voluntas
mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi
placuerit."_ He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that
the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him.
His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of
white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams,
the faint scent of the grass which still clung to his clasped hands upon
the grass, before Jeanne's sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously he
unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery.
No, no, God would not allow him to be conquered! God had chosen him to
do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of
his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master's counsels, he
had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica;
images of the vision, a written description of which he had confided to
Don Giuseppe Flores.

He saw himself in Rome at night, on his knees in Piazza San Pietro,
between the obelisk and the front of the immense temple, illumined by
the moon. The square was deserted; the noise of the Anio seemed to him
the noise of the fountains. A group of men clad in red, in violet and
in black, issued forth from the door of the temple and stopped on the
steps. They fixed their gaze upon him, pointing with their forefingers
towards Castel Sant' Angelo, as if commanding him to leave the sacred
spot. But now it was no longer the vision, this was a new imagining.
He was standing, straight and bold, before the hostile band. Suddenly
behind him he heard the rumbling of hastening multitudes pouring into