Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not
knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was
listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.
"I am not the person in question," she said. "I believe; I am a
Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and--only think of
it--they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved."
While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large,
slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust,
hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did
not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and
this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment,
which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.
"Tell me, tell me!" she begged, raising her eyes at last. "Say that my
father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!"
Benedetto answered:
"Pray!"
"My God! Only that?"
"Do we pray for the pardon of such as may not be pardoned? Pray!"
"Oh! Thank you!--Are you ill?" These last words were whispered so softly
that it was possible Benedetto did not hear them.
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