"To Monte Cassino," the youth echoed with a voice dead as his soul.
Then he added:
"I ride alone?"
"Alone!"
"Leave me now! I would spend the last hours here with him!"
"Will you not come to the refectory? You are in need of food, and the day is long!"
Francesco raised his hands as if in abhorrence of the thought. Then, as he turned towards the bier, he seemed newly overwhelmed at the sight of the lifeless clay before him. The memory of his father's first appearance, as he entered the sick-chamber, the ashen pallor, the traces of cruel pain, now softened or effaced by the majesty of Death, reverted to him.
He sank down beside the bier.
But try as he might, he could not pray.