ace belonging to the Benedictines, passed,
sighing, before the closed door, which said in vain _quieti et amicis_,
and at last reached the gate of Villa Mayda.

The gardener came, half dressed, to open the gate, and was greatly
astonished to see him. He said he had believed he was in prison, because
a _delegato_ and a policeman had been there to look for him at about
nine o'clock. Indeed the _Signora_, the Professor's daughter-in-law, had
at once ordered the servants not to admit him if he returned, but the
order had been angrily countermanded by the Professor himself, to the
great joy of the gardener, who was as fond of Benedetto and of the
master as he was averse to the _Signora_. Upon hearing this Benedetto
would have departed at once had his strength allowed him. But he was not
in a condition to go a hundred paces.

"It will be for this one night only," he said.

He occupied a small room in the gardener's little house. He had hoped,
on entering it, to find the peace of the heart, but it was not to be.
They were driving him away even from here: that was what he said in his
heart to his poor little bed, to the poor furniture, to the few books,
to the smoky tallow-candle. Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung
above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of
his will: "How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord?"

In vain; his spirit had no living sense either of Christ or of the
Cross. He sat down in despair, not wishing to go to bed in this mood,
waiting for a drop of sweetness, which did not come. A gust of wind made
him turn his head towards the window, which had burst open. He saw a
great planet tip there in the brilliant sky, above the black battlements
of Porta San Paolo, and the black summit of the pyramid of Cestio,
above the tops of the cypresses which surround the tomb of Shelley. The
wind howled around the little house. Oh! that night in the asylum, where
his wife was dying, and the shrieks of the violent patients, and the
great planet!

Bending his head, heavy with grief, he happened to notice the paper
which the footman had placed in his pocket. It was a large black-edged
envelope. He opened it, and read the name and titles of his poor old
mother-in-law, the Marchesa Nene Seremin, and the simple words that
followed:

"IN PEACE."

He was as one turned to stone, holding the open, sheet in his hand, his
eyes fixed on the words. Then his hands began to tremble, an