In the meantime, the reasons for practical prudence which pressed
upon Don Clemente at this time of distress, and the reasons for ideal
holiness which in calmer moments he had taught his beloved disciple,
were contending for supremacy over Benedetto's will, no longer so
steadfast as in the beginning; the first striving at close quarters, and
with imperious violence; the second, from a distance and by means only
of their stern and sad beauty. It seemed to him the two "holy lights"
high above the dark angle of the inclosure were watching him sternly and
sadly. Oh! unholy earth, he thought; oh! sad earth! And, perhaps, unholy
prudence, sad prudence--earthly prudence!

Upon reaching the corner, the two wayfarers turned to the left, leaving
the deep roar of the Anio behind them. They passed the great gate of
the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and
traversed the long, dark passage which runs beneath the library, reached
a low door. Don Clemente rang the bell. They would be obliged to wait
some time, for at nine o'clock, or shortly after, all the keys of the
monastery were taken to the Abbot.

"Then you will allow me to remain outside?" Benedetto asked.

On other occasions when the master had granted him this permission, he
had climbed the bare heights of Colle Lungo above the monastery, and
passed the night in prayer, either there, or on the heights of Taleo,
or on the rocky hillside which is crossed in going from the oratory of
Santa Crocella to the grove of the Sacro Speco. The master hesitated
a moment; he had not thought of this wish of Benedetto's again. And
precisely to-day his disciple had looked to him more emaciated, more
bloodless, than usual; he feared for his health, which was much impaired
by the fatigues of labour in the fields, by penance, and by a life