I must not think of them! They are not
sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but
I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the
Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which I
shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I
shall never see again! Still--God be praised!--I did not behold it in
vain! What am I doing here? Why do I not go away? But could I go away?
Oh! this fever!
He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which
showed white in the darkness. It was five minutes to eleven. Outside,
the thunder-storm still raged. The power of the maddened elements, the
power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the
clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance
over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at
its mercy. But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with
thirst. If only he could open a window, hold out his mouth to the waters
of heaven!
An electric bell sounded, and at last he hears steps in the anteroom.
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