datore answered at once: "I am coming," and, rising hastily,
left the room with a strange expression on his face, where anger was
disappearing, and obsequiousness was dawning.

The usher returned immediately, and told Benedetto to wait.

A quarter of an hour passed. Benedetto, shivering, his heart in a
tumult, his head on fire, excited and exhausted by fever, had once
more sunk upon his chair, while the most disconnected thoughts whirled
through his brain. May God forgive this man! Forgive them all! What joy
if the Pontiff should forbid the condemnation of Selva! How does the
person who may not write to me know? And now, why are they keeping me
waiting? What more can they want with me? Oh! what if with this fever I
should no longer be master of my thoughts or of my words? How terrible!
My God, my God, do not permit that! But what horrible baseness there is
in the world, what shameful, hidden fornication between these people
of the Church and of the State, who hate each other, who despise each
other! Why, why dost Thou permit it, Lord? Still no one comes! This
fever! My God, my God! let me remain master of my thoughts, of my words.
God of Truth! Thy servant is in the hands of his conspiring enemies:
give him strength to glorify Thee, even in the burning fire! Those two
persons are thinking of me now. I must not think of them! They are not
sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but
I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the
Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which
I shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I
shall never see again! Still--God be praised!--I did not behold it in
vain! What am I doing here? Why do I not go away? But could I go away?
Oh! this fever!

He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which
showed white in the darkness. It was five minutes to eleven. Outside,
the thunder-storm still raged. The power of the maddened elements, the
power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the
clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance
over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at
its mercy. But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with
thirst. If only he could open a window, hold out his mouth to the waters
of heaven!

An electric bell sounded, and at last he hears steps in the anteroom.
Here