He
thought of them again now, and, sighing, took up the little lantern he
had left on the floor in the chapter-hall.
Instead of going towards his cell he turned into the second cloister
to look at the ridge of the Colle Lungo, where, perhaps, Benedetto was
praying. Some stars were shining above the rocky, grey ridge, spotted
with black, and their dim light revealed the square of the cloister, the
scattered shrubs, the mighty tower of Abate Umberto, the arcades, the
old walls, which had stood for nine centuries, and the double row of
little stone friars ascending in procession upon the arch of the great
gate where Don Clemente stood, lost in contemplation. The cloister and
the tower stood out majestic and strong against the darkness. Was
it indeed true that they were dying? In the starlight the monastery
appeared more alive than in the sunlight, aggrandised by its mystic
religious communing with the stars. It was alive, it was big with many
different spiritual currents, all confused in one single being, like the
different wrought and sculptured stones, which, united, formed its
body; like different thoughts and sentiments in a human conscience.
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