“It was needless. I would not grieve you, father. Besides—I would not have the demons think I sought aid against them. That would have been cowardly! No—they do not even know how much their malice has made me suffer.”
“This must be looked to!” muttered the monk to himself; and drawing Giuseppe’s arm within his, he led him out of the cell and down to the chapel, intending after the evening service to confer with the Guardian respecting this new malady of his unfortunate friend.
They decided that it was best to leave Giuseppe no more alone at night. The melancholy he had suffered to prey so long on his mind had impaired his reason; repose and cheerful conversation would restore him. Father Boëmo resolved to pass the first part of the night in his cell; but as he had to go before the hour of matins to pray with a poor invalid, he engaged a brother of the convent to take his place at midnight.
When the organist the next day saw his pupil, he was surprised at the change in his whole demeanor. Giuseppe received him in his cell with a face beaming with joy, but at the same time with an air of mystery, as if he almost feared to communicate some gratifying piece of intelligence.
“You passed a better night, my son,” said the benevolent monk. “I am truly rejoiced. I have prayed for you.”
“Listen, father!” said Giuseppe, eagerly. “I have conquered them. I have put them all to flight.”
“The evil one fleeth from those who resist him,” said Father Boëmo, solemnly.
“But I have done better; I have made a compact with him.”
“Giuseppe!” The monk crossed himself, in holy fear.
“Nay, father Boëmo! I have yielded nothing. The devil is my servant—the slave of my will. Last night the demons came again so soon as you were gone, and while brother Piero slept, to torment me. They mocked me more fiercely than ever. I was in despair. I cried to the saints for succor.”