“Well, the grandmother would not hear of this ill-assorted marriage. The young couple therefore were guests in the house of the bride’s uncle, she being also an orphan. He, Don Franco, enlisted in 1859, and died of the wounds he received. His wife died soon after. The little boy was cared for by the grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, and, after her death, by certain Venetian relations of hers, of the name of Scremin. The grandmother left him very wealthy. He married a daughter of these Scremins,’ who, unfortunately, went mad soon after her marriage, I believe. Piero felt this affliction keenly, and led a life of retirement until he had the misfortune to come in contact with a woman separated from her husband. Then a period of transgression set in; he transgressed morally and in matters of faith. At last (it seems like a miracle performed by the Lord Himself) the wife in her dying moments recovered her reason, summoned her husband, spoke with him, and then died the death of a saint. This death turned Piero’s heart towards God; he left the woman, renounced his rights, left everything, and fled from his home in the night, telling no one whither he was going. Having met me once at Brescia, where I had gone to visit my sick father, and knowing I was at Subiaco, he came here. He was, moreover, fond of our Order, and cherished certain memories connected with our poor Praglia. He told me his story, entreating me to help him lead a life of expiation. I supposed he aspired to enter the Order. But he told me that, on the contrary, he did not feel himself worthy; that he had not as yet been able to ascertain the Divine Will on this point; that he wished, in the meantime, to do penance, to labour with his hands, to earn his bread—only a crust of bread. He told me other things; he spoke of certain incidents of a supernatural character which had happened to him. I at once told the late Father Abbot about him, and we decided to lodge him in the Ospizio, to let him work within the inclosure, helping the kitchen-gardener, and to provide him with the frugal fare he craved. In three years he has never once tasted coffee, wine, milk, or eggs. He has touched nothing save bread, polenta, fruit, herbs, oil, and pure water, He has led the life of a saint, all can assure you of that. Still he believes himself the greatest sinner on earth!”
“Hm!” the Abott ejaculated thoughtfully, “Hm! I see! But why does he not join the Order? Then, another thing: I know he has passed several nights outside the inclosure.”
Don Clemente felt his face once more aflame. “In prayer,” he said.
“That may be, but perhaps some may not believe it. You know what Dante says:
Ad ogni ver che ha faccia di menzogna
Dee l’uom chiuder la bocca quant’ei puote,
Però che senza colpa fa vergogna.”
[Footnote:Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood
A man should close his lips as far as may be,
Because without his fault it causes shame.
—Longfellow’s Translation of the “Inferno.”]
“Oh!” Don Clemente exclaimed, blushing, in his modest dignity, for those who were capable of harbouring vile suspicions.
“Forgive me, my son!” said the Abbot. “He is not accused, the appearances alone are criticised. Do not vex yourself. It is wiser to pray in the house! And these incidents of a supernatural character—pray tell me about them.”
Don Clemente said they were visions—voices heard in the air.
“Hm! Hm!” ejaculated the Abbot, with a complicated play of wrinkled forehead, eyebrows, and lips, as if he were swallowing a mouthful of vinegar.
“You said his name was—? His real name?”