“Yes; I remember.”
“Well, in the night I got up and went into mother's room. It was all empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited—all night. And in the morning when I came to my senses—Padre, it isn't any use; I can't explain. I can't tell you what I saw—I hardly know myself. But I know that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him.”
For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli turned and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder.
“My son,” he said, “God forbid that I should say He has not spoken to your soul. But remember your condition when this thing happened, and do not take the fancies of grief or illness for His solemn call. And if, indeed, it has been His will to answer you out of the shadow of death, be sure that you put no false construction on His word. What is this thing you have it in your heart to do?”
Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though repeating a catechism:
“To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing her from all this slavery and wretchedness, and in driving out the Austrians, that she may be a free republic, with no king but Christ.”
“Arthur, think a moment what you are saying! You are not even an Italian.”
“That makes no difference; I am myself. I have seen this thing, and I belong to it.”
There was silence again.
“You spoke just now of what Christ would have said——” Montanelli began slowly; but Arthur interrupted him: