What were they saying of him in Rome? Was
Angela buried? And her great picture? What had become of it?
"How long have I been here?" he asked suddenly.
The monk gave a curious deprecatory gesture with his hands.
"Since you died! So long have you been dead!"
Varillo surveyed him with a touch of scorn.
"You talk in parables--like your Master!" he said with a feeble
attempt at a laugh. "I am not strong enough to understand you! And
if you are a Trappist monk, why do you talk at all? I thought one of
your rules was perpetual silence?"
"Silence? Yes--everyone is silent but me!" said the monk--"I may
talk--because I am only Ambrosio,--mad Ambrosio!--something wrong
here!" And he touched his forehead. "A little teasing demon lives
always behind my eyes, piercing my brain with darts of fire. And he
obliges me to talk; he makes me say things I should not--and for all
the mischief he works upon me I wear this--see!"--And springing up
suddenly he threw aside the folds of his garment, and displayed his
bare chest, over which a coarse rope was crossed and knotted so
tightly, that the blood was oozing from the broken flesh on either
side of it. "For every word I say, I bleed!"
Varillo gave a nervous cry and covered his eyes.
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