He fell upon the ground, stretching himself
face downward on the rock, groaning in spirit: "Jesus, Jesus, I am not
worthy, not worthy to be tempted as Thou wast!" And he pressed his
tightly closed lips to the stone, seeking God in the dumb creature. God!
God! the desire, the life, the ardent peace of the soul! A breath of
wind blew over him, and moved the grass about him.
"Is it Thou?" he groaned. "Is it Thou, is it Thou?"
The wind was silent.
Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head,
and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not.
Sighing he rose to a sitting posture. God will not speak to him. His
weary soul is silent, barren of thought. Time creeps slowly on. To
refresh itself, the weary soul makes an effort to recall the last part
of the vision, its soaring flight through a stormy nocturnal sky to meet
descending angels. And he reflects dimly: "If this fate awaits me, why
should I repine? Though I be tempted I shall not be conquered, and
though I be conquered still God will raise me up again.
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