"My brethren--my Abbot--where are you?" he shouted in despair to the darkness and chaos.
"My father--my brothers!" he cried out--but the words rang in the deserted rooms--and he wandered on without aim or purpose among the ruins and timbers--now straight forward, now round and round, without knowing why or whither.
"To the chapel--to the sacristy!" an inward voice suddenly suggested. "Perhaps they are there, praying--" and with infinite trouble he felt his way on through the chaos of destruction. He could no longer find his way, for everything he was familiar with, and that could serve him as a starting point had been torn from its place or destroyed, and he toiled in vain through the darkness to reach the spot which he always missed though so close to it.
"Help--light!" he shrieked as if demented--as though he could see the light even if there were one. He forgot his blindness--he forgot everything, he was half crazed with terror.
Then again he stood still and listened--nothing was stirring but the storm which sang unceasingly its wild lament through the ruined windows.
He wandered on again towards the chapel. At last the smell of burning was mingled with the odour of stale incense, and a wild confusion of broken choir-seats, images, and candelabra impeded his steps.
"Are you here, my brethren? Is no one here?" He shouted again and listened. He heard something--this time it was not the wind, it was a low groan from some human being.
"Who is there? answer me!" he cried, trembling.
"Who are you?" A well-known but broken voice fell upon his ear.
"Correntian!" cried Donatus, between fear and joy.