"Those are our novices; we have fifteen with us."
He accompanied the visitors to the meadow behind the convent. Standing on a bank, at the foot of a blasted cypress, the good monk pointed to the fertile isles, praised their abundance, mentioned their varieties of fruit, lauded the more delightful according to the seasons, and directed their attention toward the boats sailing toward the Rialto with their new harvest.
"Praise to Thee, O Lord, for our Mother Earth!" said the woman with the flowering branch.
The Franciscan was susceptible to the beauty of that feminine voice, and was silent.
Lofty cypresses encircled the pious field; four of them showed the marks of lightning strokes. Their tops were motionless, and were the only sharp outlines in the level of the meadows, and waters that blended with the horizon. Not the slightest breeze now stirred the infinite mirror. A profound enchantment like an ecstasy filled the lovely place with rapture. The melody of the winged creatures still continued to float from invisible regions, but it, too, seemed to begin to flag and soften in this silent sanctuary.
"At this hour, on the hills of Umbria," said he that had despoiled the flowering almond of the cloister, "every olive-tree has at its base, like a covering that is shed, a heap of its cut branches; and the tree seems more beautiful because the heap of branches hides its rugged roots. Saint Francis passes in the air, and with his finger he heals the pain of the wounds made by the pruning-knife."
The Capuchin made the sign of the cross, and took his leave.
"Praise be to Jesus Christ!"
The visitors watched him as he moved away under the deep shadows cast by the cypresses.
"He has found peace," said La Foscarina. "Does it not seem so to you, Stelio? There is great peace in his face and his voice. Look at his gait, too."