d from his
hands trembling rose to his breast, growing more and more violent till a
storm of tears burst from his eyes.

He wept as many memories came to his mind, some sad, some sweet, brought
back to him by the poor dead woman. He wept with his eyes fixed upon the
crucifix, upon Christ, to whom in her last moments she surely yielded
herself up with the fullest confidence, like that other dear one, like
his Elisa; he wept in gratitude to her, who even from that unknown world
was kind to him, and softened his heart. He recalled the last words he
had heard her speak: "Then shall we never meet again?" In his prophetic
soul he smiled, turned to the open window, and gazed upon the great
planet.

CHAPTER VIII. JEANNE

A small band of workmen was coming towards Via della Marmorata, It
was about noon, and they had been at work on a house in course of
construction in Via Galvani. Seeing little groups of people standing
under the trees, other little groups at the doors, and people also at
the windows of the two last houses on the right and left, a workman, who
was following the others at a short distance, called out in a loud voice
to his companions:

"What a lot of fools for one knave!"

A big, bearded man, who was standing on the threshold of a small shop,
heard this, and, coming forward, accosted him threateningly.

"What's that you say?"

The other stopped and stared at him, answering mockingly:

"Get out! Just what I please!"

The big man struck him a blow, and then the other workmen fell upon
the big man in defence of their comrade. Cries, oaths, the flashing of
knives, the shrieks of women from the windows, people rushing up from
the avenue, policemen and guards hurrying to the spot; in an instant the
whole street was in a black ferment, while the surging, howling mob was
pitching from right to left and from left to right, as if the street
were a ship in an angry sea. Two yards from the spot where the guards
and the workmen were struggling, it would have been difficult to
ascertain what had happened. The crowd was blind in its fury against
those who had insulted the Saint. Who these were they did not know; a
hundred discordant voices called for the blood of the big man, of the
workmen, of the guards, of one who had laughed, of one who had tried to
make peace, and of one who was using his elbows to work his way forward,
as well as of one who was trying to elbow his way out. The driver of
a tram on the San