“Do not let him burn the image, Gandolfo!”
The monk had repeated his question once, twice, thrice. No one came forward to defend the image. But little Gandolfo crept nearer and nearer.
Father Gondo brought the image ever closer to the fire.
Involuntarily Gaetano had bent forward. Involuntarily a proud smile passed over his face. Donna Micaela saw that he felt that Diamante belonged to him. The monk’s wild proceedings made Gaetano master of their souls.
She looked about in terror. Her eyes wandered from face to face. Was the same thing going on in all those people’s souls as in her own? She thought she saw that it was so.
“Thou, Antichrist,” said Father Gondo, threateningly, “dost thou see that no one has thought of his soul as long as thou hast been here? Thou must perish.”
Father Gondo laid the outcast on the pyre.
But the image had not lain there more than a second before Gandolfo seized him.
He caught him up, lifted him high above his head, and ran. Father Gondo’s pilgrims hurried after him, and there began a wild chase down Monte Chiaro’s precipices.
But little Gandolfo saved the image.