Giannella

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Giannella was not the only person who was suffering from the effects of the scirocco. Across the way good Fra Tommaso was weighed down by unaccustomed spiritual depression hitherto unknown to his cheerful nature. He did not ascribe it to the weather, but to the small progress he was making towards the saintliness which the Cardinal, thirty years before, had pointed out to him as his goal. Padre Anselmo had done the same every week since then; and Fra Tommaso confessed to himself, with many misgivings, that he was woefully far away from it still. Twice lately he had lost his temper with the schoolboy who served the first Mass; this morning he had been so carried away as to box the youngster's ears for trying to trip him up as he came out of the sacristy; also he had had more distractions than usual of late, and only last Saturday had made up his mind that he would break the bonds which held him to the world at one blow—and not look at a single face in the church. This had been hard work indeed, but he had succeeded in keeping his eyes on the ground as he went about his duties, and had not even looked up when somebody knocked over a chair. Still he was very unhappy, and when the midday gun boomed from Sant' Angelo found it hard to put much spirit into his bell-ringing. That blessed fellow over at Santa Eulalia would have it all his own way to-day, for Fra Tommaso's arms ached, and his peals trailed off into silence while all the other belfries were clanging with sound. As they ceased he heard his rival still ding-donging it across the river, and it was with a dreadful sense of deficiency and defeat that he closed the church and climbed the long flights to his loggia.

As he emerged from the semi-darkness of the stairs into the blaze of light and heat on the roof he sank down in the strip of shade by the doorstep of his room and leaned back, weary and breathless, against the lintel. How hot and sweet the "basilica" was smelling there in its box on the parapet, and how pleasantly the perfume mingled with that of the cabbage soup simmering confidentially on the charcoal inside the room! Ah, it was pleasant up here; the world and its temptations lay six flights below; no distractions could climb as high as this, thank Heaven.

His pigeons came fluttering down from the eaves to welcome him, and hopped about, anxiously waiting for their largesse of corn. He was about to rise and fetch it when he glanced up and saw that one of the number had not joined the rest, but perched on a flower-pot with averted head as if in a fit of bad temper. Fra Tommaso feared it must be ailing and, getting up stiffly, prepared to capture it. As he moved, the others gathered eagerly round his feet, their burnished plumage giving out splendid glints of purple and green in the sun. The old man bent down to them laughing. "Patience, patience, you gluttonous ones," he said, "you shall have it all in good time."

Then he rubbed his eyes and looked at them again. All the seven were there, yes, seven. He looked up at the parapet, and there, viciously pulling a grand red carnation to pieces, sat an eighth, an audacious stranger who evidently intended to make himself at home.

Out came Fra Tommaso's head from the strip of shade, the sun causing him to blink painfully and showing the deep lines on his dark old face and the greenish seams of his worn robe. With outstretched hand he cautiously approached his visitor; but the caution was thrown away, for the strange bird landed on his shoulder and began playfully pecking at his grizzled hair, murmuring soft little sounds as if to entreat his indulgence. It made no resistance when he lifted it off to see it closer, but as he did so, his fingers came in contact with metal, with ribbon—what was this? He almost let the creature go in his amazement, when he discovered that it wore a tiny silver collar and that a ribbon, slender as a thread, was attached to the collar and passed under one wing. With shaking hand he pulled at the silk, and then almost reeled in surprise, for out came a fold of paper with writing showing through its thin tissue. Holy Saints preserve us! What portent was this?

His first impulse was one of fear. He moved a step to hurl the uncanny creature over the parapet; then curiosity overpowered him. He must see what was written on the paper. He knew that he should have no more peace of mind unless he did. Clumsily he got the missive free and opened it with knotty fingers that had never handled a love letter before. All was dim till he pulled out his horn spectacles and fixed them on his nose; then, careless of the sun that was beating on his bare head, deaf to the cries of his faithful retainers clamoring for food, he read this surprising message:

"Angel of my heart, for three days I have not seen thy beautiful face. I expire of anguish. I consume with torment. When shall I behold thee again? Ah, let it be soon, or I shall throw myself into the river. I cannot support existence parted from thee. Thine for all eternity.

R."

Now indeed Fra Tommaso's head reeled and he had to put out a hand to the parapet to keep himself from falling. He nearly knocked over the cherished lemon-tree, and as he bumped against it was aware of the unknown bird perched on a branch, gazing at him with a wicked, knowing gleam in its bright eyes. The sacristan recoiled in horror. What demon was this, assailing him in his old age with lures which he had bravely renounced in his distant youth? No other thought occurred to him than that he had been singled out for supernatural trial by the powers of darkness; as soon as he could collect his senses he breathed a fervent prayer to dear Saint Anthony of the many temptations to preserve him from yielding a hair's-breadth to their wiles.

This was instantly effectual, for the unblessed visitor suddenly spread its wings, rose up into the air and fluttered away over the roof. Fra Tommaso breathed more easily for a moment; then he realized that he still retained the missive of evil in his hand. Ah, it must be destroyed at once. In his haste to reach the fire he stumbled over the uneven bricks, startling his own innocent pigeons so that they scurried away from under his feet. Once inside his room he almost ran to the square of bricks in the corner where the charcoal was burning in one opening, lifted off the earthenware pot with its cabbage soup bubbling so appetizingly, and dropped the communication of the Fiend among the coals. Then, as if fearing that it would fly out in his face, he replaced the pot firmly. He had conquered the first assault of the enemy at one blow, but he felt that he must be on the alert for the next attack.