“I have been told,” the young girl answered, without raising her head, and pausing when the thunder crashed forth, “that you will perhaps be obliged to leave Jenne. A word spoken by you has given me life, but your departure will kill me. Repeat that word to me; say it for me, for me alone.”
“What word?”
“You were with the Signor Arciprete, the parish priest, I was in the next room with the servant, and the door was open. You said that a man may deny the existence of God without really being an atheist or deserving eternal death, if that God, whose existence he denies, be placed before him in a shape repugnant to his intellect, and if he love Truth, Virtue, and his fellow-men, and by his life give proof of his love.”
Benedetto was silent. Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.
“I am not the person in question,” she said. “I believe; I am a Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and—only think of it—they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved.”
While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large, slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust, hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment, which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.
“Tell me, tell me!” she begged, raising her eyes at last. “Say that my father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!”
Benedetto answered:
“Pray!”
“My God! Only that?”