He felt his breast, the buttons, the button-holes, without
understanding. He thought. A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the
field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying
dead on the grass, near the cross.
Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us
when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They
were Piero Maironi's clothes. He was still Piero Maironi. This thought
terrified him, and he recovered his senses completely. He rose to a
sitting posture, looked at himself, looked about him at the field and
the hills, veiled in the shades of evening. At sight of the great cross,
his mind regained its composure. He felt ill, very ill. He tried to
rise to his feet, but found it difficult to do so. Directing his steps
towards the mulepath, he asked himself what he should do in that
condition. Some one coming swiftly down the path from Jenne stopped
before him; he heard the exclamation: "Oh! my God! it is you!" He
recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken so passionately to him
while the storm was raging.
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