ill unconquered, but causing it to tremble like
a tightly drawn rope. Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved
him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering. Now it was her
voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for
love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad,
and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her
at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed
thus. Now it was the idea of fleeing far, far away and for ever, from
this pagan and pharisaical Rome. Again it was a vision of peace and pure
converse with the woman whom he would win over to the faith at last. It
was an ardent desire to say to the Lord:--"The world is too sad, let me
adore Thee thus." Then there came the thought that in all this there was
no sin, there was no sin in abandoning his mission in the presence of
so many enemies. He began to doubt whether he really had any mission
at all, whether he had not rather yielded to deceitful suggestions,
believed in the reality of phantoms, and been deceived by chance
appearances. He saw the spiritual and moral features of his friends
and disciples, deformed as in a convex mirror; he felt a disheartening
certainty that all he had hoped of them was vain. Then again that sad,
tender little song returned, no longer beseeching but full of pity, of
a pity comprehending all his bitter struggle, the sorrowing pity of
some unknown spirit that was also suffering and complaining of God, but
humbly, gently, pleading for all that suffers and loves in the world.

The carriage stopped at a cross-way, and the footman got down from
the box and approached the window. It seemed that neither he nor the
coachman knew exactly where this Villa Mayda was. On the right, a narrow
lane sloped down between two walls. Behind the higher one, on the left,
huge black trees rustled loudly in the west wind, which had torn the
clouds asunder. In the background, the Janiculum and St. Peter's loomed
black in the pale starlight. It was a narrow footpath. Was that where
the Signore must get out to go to Villa Mayda? No, but the Signore was
determined to get out at any cost, to quit that poisoned carriage. He
dragged himself as far as Sant' Anselmo, struggling with his poor weak
body and with the wind. Exhausted once more, he thought of asking the
monks for hospitality, but did not do so. He went down, skirting the
great silent refuge of pe