Waking in this ghastly place, too
weak to struggle, he fell a-moaning like a tortured child, and was,
on showing this sign of life, straight-way removed to one of the
cells. Here, after hours of horrible suffering, of visions more
hideous than Dante's Hell, of stupors and struggles, of fits of
strong shrieking, followed by weak tears, he woke one afternoon calm
and coherent,--to find himself lying on a straight pallet bed in a
narrow stone chamber, dimly lighted by a small slit of window,
through which a beam of the sun fell aslant, illumining the blood-
stained features of a ghastly Christ stretched on a black crucifix
directly opposite him. He shuddered as he saw this, and half-closed
his eyes with a deep sigh.
"Tired--tired!" said a thin clear voice beside him. "Always tired!
It is only God who is never weary!"
Varillo opened his eyes again languidly, and turned them on a monk
sitting beside him,--a monk whose face was neither old nor young,
but which presented a singular combination of both qualities. His
high forehead, white as marble, had no furrows to mar its
smoothness, and from under deep brows a pair of wondering wistful
brown eyes peered like the eyes of a lost and starving child.
Pages:
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813