He seemed carried
beyond himself,--it was as though some other force spoke through
him, and though he scarcely raised his voice, its tone was so clear,
musical, and penetrative that it seemed to give light and warmth to
the cold dullness of the cell.
"You must not mind me!" he went on softly, "My thoughts have all
gone wrong, they tell me,--so have my words. I was young once--and
in that time I used to study hard and try to understand what it was
that God wished me to do with my life. But there were so many
things--so much confusion--so much difficulty--and the end is--
here!" He smiled. "Well! It is a quiet end,--they say the devil
knocks at the gate of the monastery often at midnight, but he never
enters in,--never--unless perchance you are he!"
Varillo turned himself about pettishly.
"If I were he, I should not trouble you long," he said. "Even the
devil might be glad to make exit from such a hole as this! Who is
your Superior?"
"We have only one Superior,--God!" replied Ambrosio. "He who never
slumbers or sleeps--He who troubles Himself to look into everything,
from the cup of a flower to the heart of a man! Who shall escape the
lightning of His glance, or think to cover up a hidden vileness from
the discovery of the Most High?"
"I did not ask you for pious jargon," said Varillo, beginning to
lose temper, yet too physically weak to contend with the wordy
vagaries of this singular personage who had evidently been told off
to attend upon him.
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