"Do not be afraid!" said Ambrosio, drawing his robe together again,
"It is only flesh--not spirit--that is wounded! Flesh is our great
snare,--it persuades us to eat, to sleep, to laugh, to love--the
spirit commands none of these things. The spirit is of God--it wants
neither food nor rest,--it is pure and calm,--it would escape to
Heaven if the flesh did not cramp its wings!"
Varillo took his hand from his eyes and tossed himself back on his
pillow with a petulant moan.
"Can they do nothing better for me than this?" he ejaculated. "To
place me here in this wretched cell alone with a madman!"
Ambrosio stood by the pallet bed looking down upon him with a sort
of child-like curiosity.
"No better than this?" he echoed. "Would you have anything better?
Safe--safe from the world,--no one can find you or follow you--no
one can discover your sin--"
"Sin! What sin!" demanded Varillo fiercely. "You talk like a fool--
as you own yourself to be! I have committed no sin!"
"Good--good!" said Ambrosio. "Then you must be canonized with all
the rest of the saints! And St. Peter's shall be illuminated, and
the Pope shall be carried in to see you and to lay his hands upon
you, and they shall shout to him, 'Tu es Petrus!' and no one will
remember what kind of a bruised, bleeding, tortured, broken-down
Head of the Church stood before the multitude when Pilate cried
'Ecce homo!'"
Varillo stared at him in unwilling fascination.
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