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Page 48
When they returned to their _salon_, the padre followed them to say,
"You were surprised at Fra Lorenzo's appearance,--I think a little
startled, too. He is gentle and good as an angel, and this is the first
time he ever inspired fear in any one,--poor boy! He is my nephew, and I
have had him with me ever since his infancy, when his parents died. I am
his guardian, and have made him a priest and Benedictine as the best
thing I could do for him, although his rank and talents would enable him
to play a distinguished _r�le_ in the world. But, thanks be to God, he
is a devout follower of Christ, and a most useful one. He is now
twenty-five years of age; and I do not think we have a better decipherer
of manuscripts in the Church than he, since he is conversant with most
of the Oriental tongues, although so young. I sometimes fear God will
visit me for bestowing too much affection upon the boy. I strive against
it, but he remains the light of my eyes. If it be a sin, God forgive
me."
As the signora was putting out the light at her bedside, her eyes fell
upon the basin of holy water hanging above it. She wondered who had
dipped his fingers last in it, and if any one had ever before slept in
that bed without first kneeling before the ivory crucifix above the
praying-stool. And with these conjectures she fell asleep. It seemed to
her that she had been lying there only a short time when she heard a
distant door open and shut softly, then another and another, all the way
down the corridor, until the sound seemed very near; then a breath of
wind struck her cheek, which came through the outer door of her boudoir,
which she had forgotten to lock, and which some one had just opened. She
was on the point of springing out of bed to try to reach the door of the
bedroom before any one could enter, when a monk came through and stopped
at the foot of her bed. His cowl was drawn so far down over his eyes
that the point of it stood straight up above his head. His hands were
crossed over his breast, under his white robe; when, drawing his right
one out and pointing his bony finger, he said, "You heretic, what are
you doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, he passed on, and
another took his place, repeating the question. This was the beginning
of a procession of all the monks who had ever been in the monastery.
From time to time one particularly old and gaunt left the line and came
and sat down by the bedside, until there were eight, four on each side
of it. After a while Fra Lorenzo came walking with the others. He looked
at her with his melancholy eyes and made a motion to stop, but the friar
behind gave him a push and forced him forward. His low voice came to her
as he was passing through the door: "I would sprinkle you with the holy
water if I could, signora: but you see I must obey my superiors." Then
the procession ended, and she was left alone with the eight, one of whom
said to her, "Now you must go down to the crypt under the church, to be
judged for your presumption." And as they rose to seize her, she found
they were skeletons. In her effort to escape from them she awoke,
trembling in every fibre. Her waking sensations were scarcely less
terrible than her dream, for she shook so that she imagined some one was
pulling at the bedclothes. The strain could be borne no longer, and with
a spring she sat up, and her hand touched the silk coverlet. It was like
the hand of a friend. She thought of the padre, of his angelic goodness.
How could she be afraid here, where he was sovereign priest? Still, she
must satisfy herself about the door: so, lighting the lamp, she went
through all the rooms, and found both the outer doors locked. She was
again putting out the light, when a prolonged cry sounded outside the
window. It flashed through her mind that she had read somewhere that
brigands repeat the cry of wild birds as a signal when making an attack.
Perhaps a whole band was preparing to come in upon her through the
windows she had forgotten to examine. There is no knowing to what
desperate fancies her fevered imagination might have tortured her, if a
whole chorus of hoots had not commenced. So, concluding that if they
were not real owls, but men with evil intentions so stupid as to make so
much noise, they were not worth lying awake for, she resolutely turned
over and went to sleep, and only awoke as the convent-bell was ringing
for mass.
As she opened the windows and looked across the ravine to the gray rocks
beyond, the scene was so peaceful, such a reproachful commentary upon
the troubled night, that she concluded to keep silent about it. And
then, since neither her friends nor the coffee presented themselves, she
set to work to examine the engravings. The first one her eye fell upon
made her start, look again, and finally climb up on the bed and lift it
off the rusty nail, covering herself with dust in the operation, and
carry it to the window. "Yes," she said finally, after having examined
it and the text, a mixture of Latin and old Italian, very thoroughly,
"it is the same, the very same: this discovery would compensate for a
whole series of nights such as I have just been through." And, putting
it down, she ran to her travelling-bag and drew from its depths a very
small painting on copper, and compared them. Hearing just then her
friends at the door, she ran to open it with both pictures in her hands.
"What do you think? I have made a discovery. Look! My picture on copper,
which Pippo in Siena found in the little dark antiquary-shop after his
brother's death and sold to me for sixty cents, is the same as this old
engraving of the famous Annunciation picture in the Church of the
Santissima Annunziata in Florence, which is only unveiled in times of
national calamity. You know, the people believe it was painted by
angels. Here, you see, the text says it was revered in 1252, the artist
being unknown. I knew the original of my picture must be very old, for
Mary is saying in this Latin scroll coming out of her mouth, 'Behold,
the servant of the Lord,' and only the earliest painters, unable to
express their idea by the vivacity of their figures, made their mission
apparent by the scrolls coming from their mouths." They were still
examining the engraving, when the padre came to take coffee with them
and to ask if they would go down to mass, which would commence in a few
minutes. There was only time for him to say that he hoped the owls had
not disturbed them, adding, as they were on their way to the church,
"They are our bane, devouring the chickens and keeping us awake. It is a
never-ending, but perhaps needful, discipline."
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