The ancient stones, inclosing souls which love had mingled with them,
saturated with holy longings and holy sorrows, with groans and prayers,
radiated a dim something which penetrated the subconsciousness. They had
the power of infusing strength into those of God's labourers who, in
arid moments, withdrew from the world, seeking brief repose among them,
as a spring of water infuses strength into the reaper on the lonely
hills. But in order that the life of the stones might continue, a
ceaseless living stream must flow through them, a stream of adoring and
contemplating spirits. Don Clemente felt something akin to remorse for
the thoughts he had harboured in the church about the decrepitude of the
monastery; thoughts which had sprung from his own personal judgment,
pleasing to his self-esteem, and therefore tainted by that arrogance
of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and
abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the
hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of
silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning
the young man's future.
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