"_So mali passi, vigoli cattivi_! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]" said a
smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.
One of these caves, so difficult of access, was Benedetto's abode. Two
streams of people--the crowd had split coming down the hill--met below
the open door. Some women came out of a neighbouring bakehouse to say
that Benedetto was not there. The crowd surged round the invalids, and
groans were heard. Anxious questions were asked, rumours were carried up
through the two streams of people, to the very end of the procession,
where the cause of those groans was not understood, and all, eager to
see, were struggling downwards. Perhaps the sufferers had become worse,
there in the blazing sun. Three students slid down among the women, and
were received with grunts and imprecations. Now a woman of the town has
spoken:
"Take the poor creatures inside."
Yes, yes! Inside, inside! Into the Saint's house!
The crowd already expects a miracle from the walls between which
he dwells, from the floor his foot presses, from all these objects
saturated with his holiness.
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