It is the same now,
_caro_. I, who speak to you, have done much evil in my life, perhaps
you also have done a little evil; perhaps you remember it. Weep, weep,
resting thus on the bosom of the Father who is calling you, who longs to
pardon, who longs to forget it all. Presently the priest will come, and
you will tell him everything, all the evil you have done, just as you
remember it, without anguish. And then, do you know who will come to you
in the great mystery? Do you know, _caro_, what love, what pity, what
joy, what life will come?"
Struggling in the shadow of death, his glassy eyes fixed on Benedetto,
eyes which shone with an intense longing, and with the fear of being
unable to express it, the poor young man who had misunderstood
Benedetto's words, and thought he must confess to him, began telling him
of his sins. The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had
flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her
lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange
ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and--understanding--gave a
cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto,
terrified, exclaimed: "No, _caro_, not to me, not to me!" But the sick
man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto's neck, drawing him to
him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over
and over again "My God, my God!" and making a mighty effort not to
hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man's
embrace.
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