hes. On the upper landing the figure turned to the right,
and disappeared, to reappear almost immediately on an arm of the stair,
crossing the slanting background of the scene, and brilliant in the
light of an invisible window. The figure mounted slowly, almost wearily.
Before it vanished behind the enormous flank of an arch, it bent its
head and looked down. Jeanne recognised the face!

On the instant, as if in obedience to a lightning will impelling her,
as if borne along by the rush of her destiny, pale, resolute, without
knowing what she would say, what she would do, she started upwards.
Having crossed the upper landing, she was about to place her foot on
the lighter stairway, when she stumbled and fell, remaining for a moment
prostrate. Thus Noemi, on leaving the chapel, did not see her, and
concluded she had gone down in search of the portrait of St. Francis,
Jeanne rose and started forward; she was a poor creature torn by
passions, to whom the images of celestial peace, grown rigid on the
sacred walls, called in vain. All before her was silence and void. She
was following paths unknown to her, swiftly, securely, as one in an
hypnotic trance. She passed through dark and narrow places, through
light and broad places, never hesitating, never looking to right
or left, all her senses sharpened and concentrated in her hearing,
following little sounds of distant whisperings, the faint complaining
of one door, the breath of wind from another, the brushing of a robe
against the frame. Thus, through the wide-open wings of the last door
she passed rapidly, and found herself face to face with _him_.

He also had recognised her, at the last moment, on the Scala Santa. He
felt almost certain he himself had not been recognised, nevertheless he
had sought to avoid the path usually followed by visitors. Upon hearing
a swift rustle of woman's drapery approaching that mysterious hall, he
understood all, and, facing the entrance, he waited. She perceived him
and stopped suddenly, in the very act of entering, standing as though
turned to stone, between the wings of the door; her eyes fixed on his
eyes, which no longer wore the look of Piero Maironi.

He was transfigured. His form, owing perhaps to the black habit,
appeared slighter. His pale, fleshless face, his brow, which seemed
to have become higher, expressed a dignity, a gravity, a sad sweetness
which Jeanne had never known in him. And the eyes were totally different
eyes; in