"It was a _delegato_! It was the police!" The
members of that group are less enraged with the _delegato_ and the
policemen than with the stupid bystanders, who might easily have thrown
_delegato_, policemen, cab, horse and driver into the river, and,
instead, had allowed themselves to be dispersed by a few words and a few
drops of water! The little old woman who had brought Benedetto to the
unfrocked monk was there also. They stop her as she is coming out of the
bakers' shop, and now she is telling for the hundredth time the story of
the arrest, and crying, also for the hundredth time, as she tells of the
roses, of the pious words, and describes how very ill the Saint looked.
Her audience is moved also, and mumbles praises of the Saint. One
relates a miraculous cure he has effected, another tells of a second
cure; one mentions his way of speaking, which goes to the heart; another
praises his face, which is as good as a sermon; one speaks of his
poverty, and another tells of his charities, which are many, in spite of
his poverty. There they come from Via Galvani, _carabinieri_, policemen,
prisoners, and the crowd.
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