Benedetto smiled.
“Oh! certainly not!” said he. “Shall we fear the darkness more than we love the light? But I must pray God to make His will known to me, if it be possible. Perhaps He desires that, perhaps something else. And now will you send me some food and a little wine? And then let those come in, who wish to speak with me.”
Don Clemente was secretly astonished that Benedetto should ask him for wine, but he did not allow his astonishment to appear. He said he would also send him the young girl who was with the Selvas. Benedetto looked at him questioningly. He remembered that when the girl, whom he had seen later in the church, had asked for an interview, Don Clemente had pressed his arm, as if silently warning him to be on his guard. Don Clemente grew very red while he explained his action. He had seen the young girl at Santa Scolastica with another person. His movement had been involuntary. The other person was now far away. “We shall not meet again,” said he, “because as soon as I have sent you the food, and spoken to these people, I must start for Santa Scolastica.”
In speaking of going to Subiaco or elsewhere, Benedetto had said “perhaps that, perhaps something else,” with an accent so full of meaning that, when Don Clemente bade him farewell, he murmured:
“Are you thinking of Rome?”
Instead of answering, Benedetto gently took from his hands the bundle containing the poor tunic, which had been bestowed and then withdrawn, and with trembling hands raised it to his lips, pressing them to it; he let them rest there a long time.
Was it regret for the days of peace, of labour, of prayer, of gospel words? Was it the anticipation of a luminous hour in the future?
He gave the bundle back into his master’s hands.
“Farewell!” said he.
Don Clemente hastened away.