Page:The Saint (1906, G. P. Putnam's Sons).djvu/148

114 vision passed slowly, automatically, the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of harlots. He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the ground. Again he was the slow automaton. With a painful effort he rose to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft, sweet-smelling grass, pushing up between the stones. He closed his eyes in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour, of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black, plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. His heart beat fast, fast, ever faster; a thread, only a thread of will-power held him back on the downward slope leading him to answer the invitation of that face. With wide eyes, his arms extended, his hands spread open, he uttered a long groan. Then, suddenly fearing some nocturnal wayfarer might have heard him, he held his breath, listening. Silence: silence in all things save the river. His heart was growing more calm. "My God! my God!" he murmured, horrified at the danger he had been in, at the abyss he had crossed. He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred, cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below, with its squat, friendly tower, which he loved. In spirit he passed through the shadows and the roofs; he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle, of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily. With an effort he pictured to himself the