A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected at once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying, first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco. The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side, they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o’clock Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva’s messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness, swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to his lips the words rose spontaneously:
“I am coming!”
III.
Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o’clock. A few paces from the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from Subiaco having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it—an old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi’s arm, she, with difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood, waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her companion’s shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup he had brought for the beggar in Noemi’s hands, and hastened away in search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of soup, partly to the rest—the water, the sight of the ancient cloister sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will—a few minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to call the Padre foresterario, to act as guide to the visitors.
“Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva’s house,” said Noemi.
Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio had fulfilled his mission faithfully.
“Good morning, Padre,” she said in her pretty voice, to which the foreign accent lent additional charm. “We met last night. You were just leaving Signor Selva’s house.”
Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne’s passion. Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne’s thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn her dilemma to the best account.
“You were not expected last night,” said Don Clemente to Noemi. “You come from the Veneto, I believe?”
“The Veneto?” Noemi seemed surprised.