of the soul! A breath of wind blew over him, and moved the grass about him.
"Is it Thou?" he groaned. "Is it Thou, is it Thou?"
The wind was silent.
Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head, and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not. Sighing he rose to a sitting posture. God will not speak to him. His weary soul is silent, barren of thought. Time creeps slowly on. To refresh itself, the weary soul makes an effort to recall the last part of the vision, its soaring flight through a stormy nocturnal sky to meet descending angels. And he reflects dimly: "If this fate awaits me, why should I repine? Though I be tempted I shall not be conquered, and though I be conquered still God will raise me up again. Neither is it necessary to ask what His will is concerning me. Why not go down, and sleep?"
Benedetto rose, his head heavy with leaden weariness. The sky was hidden by thick clouds as far as the hills of Jenne, where the valley of the upper Anio turns. Benedetto could hardly distinguish the black shadow of the Francolano opposite, or the livid, rocky slope at his feet. He started down, but stopped after a few steps. His legs would not support him, a rush of blood set his face aflame. He had scarcely broken his fast for thirty hours, having eaten only a crust of bread at noon. He felt millions of pins pricking
