"The death of Catholicism! No, Signor!--its second birth." And with a Southern play of hand and feature--the nobility of brow and aspect turned now on this listener, now on that--he began to describe the revival of faith in Italy.
"Ten years ago there was not faith enough in this country to make a heresy! On the one side, a moribund organization, poisoned by a dead philosophy; on the other, negation, license, weariness--a dumb thirst for men knew not what. And now!--if St. Francis were here--in every olive garden--in each hill town--on the roads and the by-ways--on the mountains--in the plains--his heart would greet the swelling of a new tide drawing inward to this land--the breath of a new spring kindling the buds of life. He would hear preached again, in the language of a new day, his own religion of love, humility, and poverty. The new faith springs from the very heart of Catholicism, banned and persecuted as new faiths have always been; but every day it lives, it spreads! Knowledge and science walk hand in hand with it; the future is before it. It spreads in tales and poems, like the Franciscan message; it penetrates the priesthood; it passes like the risen body of the Lord through the walls of seminaries and episcopal palaces; through the bulwarks that surround the Vatican itself. Tenderly, yet with an absolute courage, it puts aside old abuses, old ignorances!--like St. Francis, it holds out its hand to a spiritual bride--and the name of that bride is Truth! And in his grave within the rock--on tiptoe--the Poverello listens--the Poverello smiles!"
The poet raised his hand and pointed to the convent pile, towering under the moonlight. Diana's eyes filled with tears. Sir James had come back to the group, his face, with its dignified and strenuous lines, bent--half perplexed, half frowning--on the speaker. And the magic of the Umbrian night stole upon each quickened pulse.
But presently, when the group had broken up and Ferrier was once more strolling beside Diana, he said to her:
"A fine prophecy! But I had a letter this morning from another Italian writer. It contains the following passage: 'The soul of this nation is dead. The old enthusiasms are gone. We have the most selfish, the most cynical bourgeoisie in Europe. Happy the men of 1860! They had some illusions left--religion, monarchy, country. We too have men who would give themselves--if they could. But to what? No one wants them any more--nessuno li vuole piu!' Well, there are the two. Which will you believe?"
"The poet!" said Diana, in a low faltering voice. But it was no cry of triumphant faith. It was the typical cry of our generation before the closed door that openeth not.
"That was good," said Marion Vincent, as the last of the party disappeared through the terrace window, and she and Diana were left alone--"but this is better."
She drew Diana toward her, kissed her, and smiled at her. But the smile wrung Diana's heart.
"Why have you been so ill?--and I never knew!" She wrapped a shawl round her friend, and, holding her hands, gazed into her face.