"My child, I may not speak of these things; it would be a sin. Our words we can control, if not our thoughts."
"But, sister, I need your help. You know that I have not your faith, and never could have. But I have loved as you once loved, and I shall never see the face of my lover. What shall I do with my empty life? I am so weak!"
"All the greater need have you for a stronger help than mine, for a haven from the ills of the world. I cannot think you would find that place in our cloister. There must be workers in the world among the living and strong, as well as with the sick and dying. It is in that world that you, my child, with your power, your wealth, your beauty, should find your work. The arms of the Church are wide, and embrace the toilers in the market-place as well as those who watch and pray in the cloister."
"There is only work, then, that will bring peace?"
"Work and prayer, my child. You must not talk of this to-night; you should sleep now. To-morrow you shall tell me more of the needs of your soul."
"Only work! I am so tired, I am so weak, I cannot work alone. If there had been one to help me--" She lifted her white hand, so nerveless now, and let it sink wearily beside her.
"Bring the great candelabrum, and set it at the foot of the bed. Light all the candles. I want to drive out the shadows from the dark corners. Ah! hear them singing below there in the canal."
She sat up among her pillows listening to the chorus chanted by a band of belated merry-makers. It was the love-song that the people in the sandalo had sung that afternoon.
"Dame un pensiero, sogna me, ed io ti sognerò." "In dreaming give a thought of me, and I will dream of thee."
"Give me my little golden crown, sister, and then lie down upon your couch and sleep. You do not mind the lights?"