He hesitated, undecided. The falling of a
great drop near him made him open his eyes. After the first moment of
numbness he recognised the arch on the right, where the road begins
which leads down to Santa Scolastica, to Subiaco, to Rome; and on the
left the path which rises toward the Sacro Speco. He noticed with
astonishment that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare
rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light
were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn?
Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at
Santa Scolastica--one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it
would be lighter still--for it no longer rained-were the sky not one
heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in
the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.
It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was
carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour.
Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his
voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.
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