eling, took leave of
the Abbot.

Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the
corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to
the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent
pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other passage
leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple
wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the anticipation of
the resolutions he might form, after communing with his God; the covert
hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot's frowns and doubts; the fear
that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent
and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart.
Benedetto's mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his
progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating
with Signor Giovanni, a new lucidity of thought which flashed from him
in conversation, the growing strength of their mutual affection, had
awakened in him hopes of a revelation of Divine Grace, of Divine Truth,
of Divine Power for the saving of souls, to be made, at no distant
period, through this outcast of the world. They had said at the meeting
at Signor Selva's house, "A saint is needed." The first to affirm this
had been the Swiss Abbe. Others had said that the saint should be a
layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto's repugnance
to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman
seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the
convent. But what was happening out on the hills? What words was God
uttering in his heart? And if--

This unexpected, formidable _if_ flashing into his mind stopped the
ponderer in his slow walk. _"Magister adest et vocat te!"_ Perhaps the
Divine Master Himself was even now calling Benedetto to serve Him in the
habit of a monk.

He ceased thinking, terrified, and, having set the tiny lantern down,
passed from the chapter-hall into the church, directing his steps
towards the chapel of the Sacrament. With that dignity of which no
internal storm could rob his refined bearing and the lofty beauty of his
face, he sank upon his knees at the desk which stands in the centre of
the chapel, between the four columns, under the lamp, raising his eyes
to the tabernacle.

The Teacher of the Way, of Truth, of Life, the Beloved of the soul, was
there, and sleeping, as He had slept on that stormy