uld be a blow directed against the most active
and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of
stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the
human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!" The hour struck
in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto's
hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute
pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not
utter.

He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again. At
last he said, in a stifled voice:

"Pray for me, pray that the Lord may enlighten me!"

A tear trembled in each of the beautiful, gentle eyes of the old man,
who had never wilfully soiled himself with an impure thought, who was
full of the sweetness of charity. Benedetto was so deeply moved that he
could not speak.

"Come again," the Pope said, "We must converse together again."

"When, Your Holiness?"

"Soon, I will summon you."

Meanwhile the advancing shadows had engulfed the white figure and the
black one. His Holiness placed his hand on Benedetto's shoulder and
asked him softly, almost hesitatingly:

"Do you remember the end of your vision?"

Benedetto, bowing his head, answered, also in a low tone:

"_Nescio diem, neque horam_."

"The words are not in the manuscript," His Holiness continued; "but do
you remember?"

Benedetto murmured:

"In the Benedictine habit, on the bare earth, in the shade of a tree."
"Should it happen thus," the Holy Father said gently, "I would wish to
bless you in that moment. Then I shall be awaiting you in Heaven."

Benedetto knelt down. The Pope's voice sounded very solemn in the
darkness:

"_Benedico te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_."

The Pontiff rapidly ascended the five steps, and disappeared.

Benedetto remained upon his knees, wrapt in that benediction which, it
seemed to him, had come from Christ Himself. On hearing steps in the
gallery he rose. A few moments later he was returning to the bronze
portal, accompanied by Don Teofilo.

III.
The room on the fourth floor was hardly decent. An iron bedstead, a
pedestal, a writing-desk, with a few torn and dilapidated books, a deal
chest of drawers, an iron washstand, and a few straw-bottomed chairs,
were all it contained. A suit of grey clothes was hanging from one nail,
a broad-brimmed black hat from another. Frequent flashes of lightning
could be