“That same night, about the time the lamps began to be lighted, and I had started out in search of another mouldmaker, the old man in rags stepped out of the shadow of a wall and touched my arm.
“‘I know the place, signore, and I know the Madonna. I have everything here in this bucket—at night the church is closed, but there is a side door. I will take your twenty lira. Come with me.’
“When you are twenty, you are like a hawk after its quarry—your blood boiling, your nerves keyed up, and you swoop down and get your talons in your prey without caring what happens afterward. Being also a romantic hawk, I liked immensely the idea of doing my prowling at night; there was a touch of danger in that kind of villany which daylight dispels. So off we started, the ragged man carrying the bucket holding a small bottle of olive-oil, dry plaster, and a thick sheet of modelling wax besides some tools: I with two good-sized candles and a box of matches.
“When you rob a bank at night you must, so I am told, be sure you have a duplicate key or something with which to pick the lock. When you rob an Italian church, there is no such bother—you simply push wide the door and begin feeling your way about. And it was not, to my surprise, very dark once we got in. The ruby light in the big altar lamp helped, and so did what was left of a single candle placed on a side altar by some poor soul as part penance for unforgiven sins.
“And it did not take long once we got to work. First a coat of oil to keep the wax from sticking to the marble; then a patting and forcing of the soft stuff with thumbs, fingers, and a wooden tool into the crevices and grooves of the stone, and then a gentle pull.
“Just here my courage failed and my conscience gave a little jump like the toothache. It might have been the quick flare of the lone candle on the side altar—I had not used my own, there being light enough to see to work—or it might have been my heated imagination, but I distinctly saw on the oil-smeared face of the blessed mother an expression of such intense humiliation that I pulled out my handkerchief, and although the ragged man was calling me to hurry, and I myself heard the noise of approaching footsteps, I kept on wiping off the oil until I saw her smile once more.
“The time lost caused our undoing—or rather mine. The ragged man with the precious mould ran out the side door which was never locked—the one he knew—I landed in the arms of a priest.
“He was bald-headed, wore sandals, and carried a lantern.
“‘What are you doing here?’ he asked gruffly.
“I pulled out the two candles and held them up so he could see them.