“Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa with lowered voice, “have you forgotten to call on the saints?”
“I have called on both the black Madonna and San Sebastiano and Santa Lucia. I have prayed to as many as I could name.”
“Do you think, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, and lowered her voice still more, “that Don Antonio Greco was helped, because he promised money to Donna Micaela’s railway?”
“I have no money to give,” said the old man, disconsolately.
“Still, you ought to think of it, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, “since you are in such straits. You ought to try if, by promising the Christ-image that you yourself and all who belong to your company will speak and sing of the railway, and persuade people to give contributions to it, you may keep your church. We do not know if it can help, but one ought to try every possible thing, Father Elia. It costs nothing to promise.”
“I will promise anything for your sake,” said the old man.
He laid his old blind head again against the black coffin, and Donna Elisa understood that he had given the promise in his desire to be left in peace with his sorrow.
“Shall I present your vow to the Christ-image?” she said.
“Do as you will, Donna Elisa,” said the old man.