certainty. Then
he saw the old General.

In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man.
Instantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, of
those following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of
the priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearful
was his anger as he held it back with the rein of years of
self-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling.

"May I enter, my son?" he asked.

"You may enter."

The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him with
glowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him
he did not flinch.

"You are disappointed, my son?" the old man asked with a gentleness
that Ramoni could not apprehend, "and you can not sleep?"

Ramoni's anger swept the question aside. "Have you come here, Father
Denfili," he cried, "to find out how well you have finished the
persecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quite
consoled. It is finished to-night." His anger, rushing over the gates,
beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was
a passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when
the old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been
put upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of
this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the
old man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of
patience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke.

"You did not pray, my son?"

"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined.
I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel."

"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God,
and God alone; even if there be a thousand present."

"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you
think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was
not God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know
it."

"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is
right for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was
consulted, and I advised Pietro."

"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other.

"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old
voice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever
before I must say it to you to-night."

The old man's thin hands were groping